Thieves Tales
by Poiniard
Summary: A few short tales of greed, treachery and adventure about- you guessed it- thieves. Plus, the tale of my infamous namesake.
1. Greed

GREED  
  
The sparkling gem nearly filled the palm of his hand. The sarcophagus was lined along the outside near the top with a row of others, identical to the one he had just removed. Greed is the bane of many thieves, but if one stolen gem is good, two would be better. With his knife, he started prying loose a second gem. His blade snapped, sending tiny shards of metal flying.  
  
For untold winters, no sound had disturbed that silent chamber, the resting place of some long-forgotten sorcerer-king entombed with his riches. But the tiny sound of his knife breaking was enough to awaken the fell spirit of whatever doomed soul rested there. Something stirred inside the stone coffin.  
  
He gave up on getting the second gem, and fled. He heard a rustling behind him, and the heavy scrape of stone. A skeletal hand caught his ankle and he fell, barely managing to keep a hold on his stolen gem. Even through his boot, the wraith's touch was a blinding pain. Its grip was cold, and strong as iron. With a desperate kick, he freed himself and ran on, barely a step ahead of the clutching undead creature. Traps in the outer corridor, so carefully avoided on the way in, sprung heedlessly behind him as he ran. He knew the lich, once awakened, would not give up its pursuit. Even the dead have no love for thieves.  
  
Panting, he reached the sunlit entrance to the crypt. Only then did he pause to draw his sword. A pale beam of light came in from the ceiling, through the hole where his rope still hung. The thing from the sarcophagus caught up with him there, but halted at the edge of the light. The undead creature recoiled, raising its shrouded arms to cover its face. It hissed in anger, and it stank of the grave, but daylight was not its friend. With a single slash, he beheaded the thing and shattered its forearms at the wrists. The lich fell to the floor with a decrepit moan and lay still.  
  
He sheathed his sword and set a gloved hand on his rope. Before he climbed up, he paused to look at the thing on the floor. It was clothed in tattered robes of pale white, almost the same color as its naked bones. It had a golden crown on its head. It still wore a jeweled necklace and bracelets, corroded with age. One severed, skeletal hand still clutched a gem-encrusted scepter. A small fortune in baubles. To the right seller, a large fortune.  
  
He glanced at the gem still in his hand. There was blood on his wrist where he had been cut by a shard from his knife. His ankle still throbbed with a pain like frostbite where the lich had grabbed his ankle. Greed is the death of many thieves. He tucked the gem into his belt and climbed up the rope.  
  
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This work of original fiction is © Poiniard (FanFiction ID 68338). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of the author. 


	2. The Eye of the Beholder

Certain monsters appearing in this story are © WotC. They are used without permission and for entertainment purposes only. All reviews are welcome.  
  
THE EYE OF THE BEHOLDER  
  
Grimsley knelt there in the shadows, clutching his crossbow tightly. The young thief pressed himself closer to the rock wall behind him. He dared not move or even raise his bow until his master returned to give him the word. His knees were shaking with fear, and he did not wholly trust his elf- made cloak to hide him from the monstrosity before him. The eye tyrant loomed there, just floating, more than the height of a man above the floor. Thankfully, the thing's attentions were elsewhere. Its lesser eyestalks waved about angrily, sending out sharp lances of deadly magic across the cavern at the other adventurers. The thing's great central eye was facing towards them, away from Grimsley. Its exposed back was covered in overlapping plates of armored hide. He doubted his crossbow would be of much use against that.  
  
Screams echoed from across the cavern. The magical wall of flame was already dying, extinguished by the beholder's central eye. The initial hail of arrows had already died to a trickle. Grimsley peered through the smoke- filled cavern, and saw the beholder go after one of the spellcasters. A bright beam lanced from one of its swiveling eyestalks, hitting the mercenary sellspell, Frund Firemaster. The man disappeared into a screaming, gruesome heap as the disintegration beam struck him. When Frund died, the last remnants of his conjured wall of flame went with him. Most of the twenty hired archers lay dead behind it, but the armored front rank still stood firm, pikes and spears planted. Grimsley saw the party's other mage, Pandion, move up behind them.  
  
Unlike Frund, Pandion had traded his sorcerer's robes for an old suit of light leather armor. Although it hindered his spellcasting, the armor probably bought him enough time to cast a spell of his own. Beholders knew that human wizards rarely wore armor, so when they were disturbed, they typically sought out the robed intruders first, thinking them the greater threat.  
  
The more experienced Pandion cast his spell and ducked back out of sight. A dozen huge, black, rubbery tentacles seemed to erupt from the stones beneath the monster. Reaching up, they grappled it, holding it in place. The powerful tentacles constricted, but they were no match for the beholder's armored shell. The thing turned one of its eyestalks downward and began slicing off the constraining tentacles with its ray.  
  
They had planned the whole battle out in advance. A week-long expedition into the mountains to the lair, followed by a day of rehearsals and a night of getting high on the vapors of dreidwillow tea. The next morning, the attack had begun. The party had fought its way through the beholder's minions with little trouble. The real work, the frontal assault by the archers and wizards, was just a distraction. The others drew the beholder's full attention, allowing the two thieves to sneak unnoticed around to the monster's unguarded flank. It didn't look unguarded to Grimsley. From the carnage on the far side of the cavern, Grimsley wasn't sure the plan was working.  
  
Then Grimsley heard the whispered voice of his teacher in his ear. "Psst, Grimsley, I am here." Somewhat relieved, yet fearful all the same, he turned to face Harrow Darkbriar. His elven teacher was all but invisible, even this close. He had promised to teach Grimsley how to do that, after the beholder was dead. With a look, Harrow bade Grimsley be quiet, and drew forth a knife. The blade was glistening and black. Grimsley frowned. That was not the plan. Harrow's enchanted crossbow was still slung across his back.  
  
Suddenly, the master thief drove the poisoned dagger into the chest of his unsuspecting apprentice. Grimsley managed a look of horror and betrayal before falling to the ground, dead. Harrow pitched his body forward where the beholder would certainly find it, then drew his own magical cloak about him, and snuck back to the entrance. The wizard Pandion gave the signal for retreat, and an obscuring mist rose to cover their hasty withdrawal.  
  
Outside the beholder's cave, it began to rain. The survivors hurriedly mounted their horses and rode back towards their camp, hidden a safe distance away among the rocky hills. Harrow hurried to catch up with Pandion.  
  
"At least we don't have to pay Frund. He wanted more than he was worth."  
  
The armor-clad wizard chuckled. "A few of the archers survived," he said quietly. "I pray that they don't meet with an accident before we make it back." He smiled. "Now all we have to do is wait for the thing to eat the poisoned body, then we can go back and collect its hoard."  
  
"I hope we don't have too wait long," replied Harrow. "This weather is horrible." 


	3. Neferi's Tale

AN EXCERPT FROM "NEFERI'S TALE"  
  
"Jarkell, there's people out there."  
  
Before she could say another word, the weaponmaster suddenly grabbed the girl by the cloak. He pulled her roughly towards him, up against a large tree, and clamped a gloved hand over her mouth. She struggled and glared at her companion, thinking herself betrayed. Frightening memories of a night long ago welled suddenly into Neferi's mind.  
  
"Trolls," he whispered, then slowly removed his hand. He pointed off to their left. Three creatures were moving through the woods, towards their camp.  
  
Realizing her mistake, Neferi slid from his grasp and dropped to a crouch. Her twin daggers were out in an instant, her eyes darting about the forest. She didn't think they'd been spotted. "You could have just told me," she hissed.  
  
There was no humor in his eyes. His black-edged greatsword was out. Neferi had not even heard him draw it. "We've got to make our way back to the others, and quietly," he whispered.  
  
"That's my specialty." She started moving silently back the way they had come.  
  
Jarkell grabbed her again, but this time all he did was put his free hand on her shoulder. He shook his head. In the dim light of the shadowed forest, she saw Jarkell draw his hand across his neck. He pointed at the three trolls with his sword. Silently, he tapped his chest, and pointed off into the woods, along a path that would take him slightly ahead of the trolls. He pointed to her, and indicated that she should move silently around behind them. The little rogue gulped, and nodded.  
  
Her palms were sweating inside her gloves as Jarkell moved off into the darkness, leaving her alone. She realized, suddenly, why the houseless weaponmaster had been so insistent on teaching her the proper way to use her knives. Soon, she would put that training to the test. Cautiously, she set out, in a different direction. Neferi felt uncomfortable in the forest, exposed. Moving silently over a bed of leaves was much more difficult than anything she'd ever had to do in the alleyways of Culhaven. The sun was setting, and the forest was growing dark. The monsters carried no torches, but they did have warhorns. The forest rang with their fearsome sounds from several directions.  
  
Neferi knew that if she abandoned Jarkell to face the three trolls alone, he would probably die, and then they would come for her. If she tried to run, she would be lost in the forest without the others. She tried to move as quickly and quietly as she could, her ears straining for the sound of battle. When Jarkell ambushed the three trolls, she'd have to get there soon.  
  
All too soon, she heard it- Jarkell's warcry, and the ring of steel against steel. It didn't come from the direction she had been expecting. Neferi changed her course, and sprinted towards the sounds.  
  
Already, Jarkell had felled one of the three trolls. It lay at his feet, headless. But the other two trolls were bearing down on the weaponmaster. Jarkell had found a large outcrop of stone, and he stood with his back to it, fending off two attackers at once. The trolls were huge, taller even than Jarkell. They were covered with rough hides and bits of tattered leather. She wondered if her knives would even penetrate a troll's tough hide. Their skin seemed to be made of granite scales. One held a huge spiked club, the other wielded a wood-handled stone mattock two-handed. Jarkell managed to parry the club, but had to dodge the other troll; it's weapon missed but struck the boulder behind him with a resounding crack. Jarkell cut across with his sword, and laid open the thigh of one of the trolls.  
  
Neferi covered the ground between them with a few quick strides. As she ran, she imagined herself as a warrior-princess of old, cutting the great troll in two with a single cut of her blade. But these were daggers she carried, not a greatsword like Jarkell's. Pushing aside the inexplicable fantasy, she tried to remember what he had hastily taught her- the most critical points on a body. She could only hope that a troll had the same weaknesses as a man.  
  
They never even heard her coming. With a quick slash, Neferi cut through the back of one troll's legs. Just like that man in the alleyway long ago, the troll cried out as she severed the sinews of its knee. The troll buckled, spurting blood. As it fell, it twisted away from her. But this time, Neferi was prepared to finish what she started. She had her second dagger out, and already moving. She plunged her knife into the thing's neck, just as Jarkell had explained to her. She had to jump out of the way to avoid being crushed as it fell.  
  
Her attack provided just enough distraction for Jarkell to deal with the other troll. With a back-handed slash, he cut the thing's neck, then brought his sword down, point first with both hands, into its chest.  
  
Suddenly, a fourth troll loomed up behind Jarkell, one they had not seen before. It stood atop the boulder he'd been keeping at his back. The monster raised its huge claidhmore overhead. Without thinking, Neferi threw one of her knives. It took the thing right in the eye. "Look out!"  
  
Jarkell whirled, and cut the thing down at the ankles. With a roar of agony, the troll pitched off the stone and fell towards them. Neferi leapt back out of reach, her thrown dagger already replaced in her hand by another. Without a word, Jarkell reversed his sword again and pierced the thing through the heart.  
  
"Gods, these things stink," Neferi cursed. The troll blood was warm and black in the dim light, and she could feel she was splattered with it.  
  
Jarkell was just a shadow, standing there. "More than that," he said. "They're things of magic, and they won't stay dead for long. It takes a magic sword to really kill one, or a wizard. I don't suppose you're a wizard?"  
  
She looked at the four corpses lying motionless on the forest floor. "Hardly."  
  
Jarkell went to the first troll, the one Neferi had killed with her knives, and thrust his black sword through its heart. For good measure, he repeated the ritual on the other three. "Can't be too careful with these things." The weaponmaster looked around the forest for signs of other trolls. Off in the distance, they could hear the sounds of battle. "We'd better go back and help. Gather up your knives. If you have a mind to keep them, you'll have to get them cleaned off by morning. Troll's blood can eat through steel."  
  
The knife she had thrown was buried somewhere in a bloody, stinking dead hulk. Neferi grimaced at the thought of retrieving it. Disgusted, she dropped one of the knives she was holding, the one with troll's blood on it. "No thanks," she said. "I've got plenty more."  
  
*** 


	4. Roleplaying the Rogue

ROLEPLAYING THE ROGUE  
  
Author's Note: Strictly speaking, this is an essay, not a fanfiction. It's something I wrote long ago, to help spark ideas for fledgling roleplayers (computer or pen-and-paper) who wanted to try out a rogue. It may be of interest to authors as well. Still, I think it fits here, and I hope you enjoy reading it.  
  
A NOTE ON ROGUES IN GENERAL: Because of their "adventurous" lifestyles, rogues often have a fondness for life's finer things- especially those which they cannot have! Rogues can come from any social status, from the street urchin gutter rat to the wealthy, jaded nobleman. But most have one thing in common- at some point in their life, fate dealt them a cruel hand. There are many rogue archetypes to draw from. Matthew Broderick's character "Mouse" from Lady Hawk, Cary Grant's "John Robie, the Cat", James Garner's "Brett Maverick" character, Pierce Brosnan in "The Thomas Crown Affair", Bilbo Baggins from "The Hobbit," and the most (in)famous rogue from the fantasy genre, the Grey Mouser.  
  
ROGUE ARCHETYPE #1- THE SWASHBUCKLER: The swashbuckler typically fights against some injustice and loyally serves some higher power. They are often forced to become rebels against the political status quo. Most swashbucklers are members of a band of like- minded fellows. Burt Lancaster in the movie "The Flame and the Arrow" was the greatest example of what a swashbuckler should be. He was also excellent in the movie "the Crimson Pirate". Yul Brenner in the movie "The Buccaneer" is another good example. The Robin Hood characters, played in the movies by Kevin Costner or Errol Flynn, were swashbuckling rogues. The dread pirate Roberts in the movie "The Princess Bride" is another good example of a swashbuckler. This is who my current rogue character is modelled after. The elf Elaith Craulnaber in Elaine Cunningham's Forgotten Realms novels is a good example which shows the swashbuckling rogue can be evil as well.  
  
ROGUE ARCHETYPE #2- THE BURGLER: These guys are usually exciting if not fun to be around. The burgler doesn't plan out his crimes in advance, he just takes an opportunity when it arises. They frequently end up getting into trouble and rely on their luck to get them out. Burglers generally hate violence and are usually not mean-spirited. These are the only rogues who are likely to pick your pockets. Most burglers operate alone. Matthew Broderick's character in the movie "Lady Hawk" is my all-time favorite rogue. My original thief character was modelled after him. Bilbo Baggins from Tolkien's "The Hobbit" is probably the best example of this type of rogue. Merry Brandybuck is a burgler as well- in "The Return of the King" he got in an awesome backstab against a Nazgul. The Kender characters in Dragonlance are probably this type of rogue.  
  
ROGUE ARCHETYPE #3- THE THIEF: The hard-edged professional who reveals little about himself. He is coldly calculating, trusts no one and is always thinking and watching. He is usually after one thing- money, and he doesn't bother with that pittance of coins in your pockets, either. He wants that treasury in the nobleman's vault or the golden idol on the temple altar. This type of rogue works at all his skills, and has to be an expert at picking locks and disarming traps. Some retired thieves are even able to make an honest living as professional locksmiths. Keep in mind the classic sayings "honor among thieves" and "a kind word and a knife in the back gets you more than a kind word." Thieves can operate alone or in groups. Just remember- it's best not to act alone, so there is someone else to pin the blame on if you get caught. The Grey Mouser in the books by Fritz Leiber is the pre-eminent example of this type of rogue. John Roby the Cat in the Alfred Hitchcock movie "To Catch A Thief" is an upper-class version in a modern setting. The "Thieves World" series of anthologies is full of colorful examples of all types. The Gord character in the old Greyhawk novels by Gary Gygax is a somewhat less memorable example. The main character in the recent Dungeons and Dragons movie was another rather bland version of the thief.  
  
ROGUE ARCHETYPE #4- THE ASSASSIN: Much more evil than thieves are the assassins. They use their rogue skills only for killing. Though they sometimes charge for their services, they usually aren't in it for money. Most assassins are a little unstable, even psychopathic. Most assassins operate alone. I once played an elven rogue who could frighten everyone around him with just a look. No one ever saw him kill and he always acted the polite, educated gentleman, but there was always something menacing about him just below the surface. He kept everyone on edge with the impression that he might lash out with a hidden knife and slash their throat if left alone with him. The character Artemis Entreri in R.A. Salvatore's Forgotten Realms books is the most famous example.  
  
A NOTE ON VILLAINS IN ON-LINE GAMES: A good villain uses fear and lies to manipulate his enemies and keep them off balance. He may draw his weapon to menace someone, but if he has to fight, he's doing something wrong. Most of his atmosphere can be described as haughtiness or arrogance. Picking pockets is for jesters, beggars and fools, not thieves. The best way to roleplay a villain is to gain someone's trust and then betray them. 


	5. A Harrowing Tale

Gemstone III was a text-based MMORPG set in the world of Elanthia. The game began as a free service to AOL subscribers, and I first started playing back in 1996, a month before AOL switched to monthly billing. I played many different characters until 2000, when I gave up text-based games forever in favor of EverQuest. I still remember killing my first rat in the catacombs under Wehnimer's Landing. What follows is the greatest adventure of one of my later characters, an elven rogue named Harrow Darkbriar.  
  
The Book Hunt: A Harrowing Tale  
  
Harrow Darkbriar, elf of Ta'Nalfein, waited alone in the secret workshop. Far beneath the streets of Wehnimer's Landing, the little-known chamber was rarely used- and well suited to his purposes. Weapons in various states of completion were held in locked vises atop a large wooden workbench, and shelves filled with finely made tools lined the walls. Bolted to the center of the wall was a plain iron cresset, shaped like a trident and containing a pale, flickering flame. By pulling hard on the cresset, one could activate an old mechanism behind the wall, causing it to swing open. This was the only access to the room in which he waited.  
  
Harrow was clad in the non-descript garb of a traveller. A dusty brown hat was perched on his head, covering his long, straight dark hair, and an old brown scarf was wrapped around his neck. At his waist were a gem pouch and tool satchel of sturdy dark leather, and a weathered leather cloak covered his reinforced leather armor. He held in his right hand a leather-bound prayer book, which he had just removed from the grimy skull-clasped leather backpack he wore.  
  
The backpack, and more importantly the prayer book, had until recently been trusted to the keeping of Laltobur Faircaverns, a dwarf of little importance. The book itself belonged to a powerful sorceress, the Lady Penstar. She was a Trine of the Coven- that meddlesome organization of powerful female spellcasters. Harrow had managed to acquire the book from her incompetent servant, Laltobur. After gleaning what information he needed from the book, Harrow made plans to sell it for whatever he could get.  
  
With a sudden grind, the secret door in the wall pivoted, and Dafnie, a red- haired half-elf, entered with a startled look on her face. She was almost immediately followed by her companions- Valkyva, Narissa, Cassioppia, Penstar, Desmonique and Larsista. Harrow quickly tucked the stolen tome into his leather cloak and looked up. Narissa waved scornfully to him, while Dafnie leaned nonchalantly against the huge broadsword.  
  
"Who are you?" Harrow asked, startled by the sudden appearance of the women. He narrowed his eyes with suspicion. Then, his jaw dropped as he realized that these were witches of the Coven- no doubt come to retrieve their book. The fence Harrow had been expecting was not there, and he knew he had been sold out.  
  
"You cannot have found me unaided," Harrow snarled. "I have been betrayed!" One of the leaders of the witches, Desmonique, pleased to have found the thief so quickly, exclaimed gleefully, "ah ha!"  
  
Harrow felt suddenly quite exposed and outnumbered. He spoke aloud a brief prayer in his native elven dialect, "Charl, guide me to your sanctuary!" Then, he slipped a gold ring from his finger, and raised it skyward, almost tauntingly. He slid the ring back on his finger... and disappeared.  
  
The Nalfein's surroundings shifted, and he felt a little pulse from his ring as the teleportation magic adjusted to the new environment. Standing among tumbled rocks made slick with still-wet seaweed, Harrow gazed down at the pools of water that lingered between the rocks. He was in a tide pool in the beach area, near the Coastal Cliffs. Here and there among the crevices, odd bits of sea-life still clung, waiting for the return of the tide and the sheltering sea. Harrow scrambled down the side of the tide pool, ignoring the dismembered bits of fish and small crabs flung there by the retreating waves. He hurried downward until he had reached the bottom of the rocky slope and stood along the edge of the tide pool itself.  
  
The far end opened out to the sea, and there seemed to be no other way out, save by climbing back up the slope behind him. Leaning against a worn boulder to rest a moment, Harrow noticed an odd smell all around the area, coming from a large smudge of some black viscous goo on the rocks. Suddenly, Harrow had the strangest feeling he was being watched. The hairs rose on the back of his neck, and he realized the Coven was using their dark craft to seek him out. But the feeling faded as quickly as it came.  
  
Climbing around one of the boulders, Harrow ducked into a tidal cave. Cool seawater lapped around his ankles, and he found the light filtering in from the cave mouth reflected off the resulting wavelets in a hypnotic display. The tunnel extended southward, going deep within the cliff. Peering in that direction with his elven sight, Harrow could make out a faint emerald glow illuminating the rough walls of the cave.  
  
He hurried south, and came to the edge of an emerald pool. Underneath the surface of the water, a faint glow was emanating from a small opening. Making sure the book was safely sealed inside his backpack, Harrow took a deep breath, held his nose, and dove into the pool, and swam for the opening. The opening was difficult to reach, and Harrow found himself beginning to panic. But just as he thought he was about to run out of air, the opening came into view and he managed to pull himself through.  
  
Harrow found himself in a domed chamber. Looking upward, the most prominent thing visible was an enormous statue of white coral tinged with blue flecks. The statue's form glared down at him with impassive, seemingly harsh, blue eyes. He also saw a polished mother-of-pearl dais. Suddenly, a dolphin's tail rose out of the water nearby. The tail seemed to wave at him briefly before it came crashing down, sending water splashing in all directions.  
  
Harrow pulled a dagger and the leather-bound prayer book from his cloak, prepared to make a stand, yet half believing that the Coven would not dare to shed blood here in the shrine of the Sea Judge, Charl. Remembering the crystal amulet he wore, Harrow focused on projecting his thoughts at his pursuers.  
  
"Ha ha!" he thought to them. The emerald points in the statue's trident flickered briefly. After a moment they returned to their normal brilliance. Then Harrow heard the faint thoughts of Penstar echo in his mind. "He scoffs at us in his thoughts, but we shall find him."  
  
As if in answer, Dafnie, followed by Larrista, suddenly surfaced nearby, coughing and sputtering. Harrow scowled at them, and tightened his grip on his dagger. Dafnie gestured and uttered a phrase of magic. Paying no heed to the sanctity of Charl's grotto, she pointed one finger at Harrow. He blinked, and his mind went completely blank. His arm dropped, holding his dagger useless by his side. The other witches quickly joined them, swimming up through the emerald opening. Cassioppia, perhaps mightiest among the Coven, gestured and uttered a phrase of magic of her own. She gestured at the numb elf, and strands of webbing shot forth to bind him helplessly to the rocks.  
  
"Ha!" Lady Penstar exclaimed, clapping her with pleasure. They finally had their victim in their clutches. Dafnie pointed at Harrow, and he awoke, as if startled from a dream. The witches all gathered around Harrow, like spiders in a web. "Naptime so soon?" taunted Penstar. Larrista leapt on the hapless rogue, and forced his head down under the water. He quickly emerged, sputtering and spitting. "Great job," congratulated their leader, the evil Cassioppia. "Unhand my book," demanded Penstar.  
  
Harrow was now in fear for his life, yet he was not ready to submit. "Hah," he sneered, "Lousy witches-"  
  
Instantly, Dafnie gestured at him, causing Harrow's mind to go blank again. Narissa asked, "Lousy?" to which Penstar could only snicker. "He must mean Eratika," answered Dafnie with a grin. This brought a chuckle from the other witches.  
  
"Wake him," Larrista ordered. But instead of waiting, she gestured and uttered a phrase of magic. Harrow was unable to ward off the arcane assault, and he felt a numbing jolt reverberate through his skull. He was stunned senseless. It was Cassioppia who finally brought him around, so they could question him. Narissa poked Harrow sharply in the ribs, more like a cook inspecting her meat than someone trying to awaken a sleeper. Still entangled in the sorcerous web, Harrow was unable to move at all. But, his senses regained for a moment, he made one last act of defiance.  
  
"Trollops and nursemaids," he hissed, only to receive a blow from Penstar in answer. Her fist caught the webbed Harrow square in the solar plexus, and he doubled over, gasping for air. Cassioppia laughed at Harrow's plight, while the witches clucked like hens at his last words, and debated how to prepare and interrogate their prisoner.  
  
"Trollops?" Narissa asked.  
  
"Nursemaids?" Penstar wondered.  
  
"Trollop?" asked Dafnie. "A baby troll?"  
  
"Trollops are female trolls," explained Desmonique. "We...are not trolls."  
  
All the witches nodded in agreement.  
  
"You think a stun is bad?" threatened the sinister Larrista.  
  
"Kill 'im and search 'im," advised Elleth.  
  
"Which arm do you want, Desmonique?" teased Larrista. "I will get the other one."  
  
"We shall draw and quarter him," laugheded Desmonique, the most fey of them all.  
  
Of all the witches, Cassioppia alone was in no mood to jest, for they had not as yet retrieved the stolen book. "Harrow," she said, "There is no way ta hide, tell us what we want, an give us what is ours." The webs dissolved from around him, as if on cue. Cassoppia, concerned that their prey might die of some wound before they were through with him, checked Harrow for injuries with an expression of false concern. The thump from Lady Penstar had stunned Harrow so badly, he was still quite unable to speak. The gathered witches all giggled and tried unsuccessfully to revive the unconscious elf. At last they decided they could only wait until Harrow revived on his own.  
  
"Well perhaps he will have time to consider his actions," Penstar asked rhetoricaly. She peered quizzically at the stunned Harrow, knowing full well he could hear her but was quite unable to answer. All the women nodded to Penstar in agreement. Then, the sadistic Larrista said, "I hate violence though." With that, she gestured at Harrow, and his right leg painfully snapped.  
  
Cassioppia who was leaning against a polished mother-of-pearl dais, glanced at Harrow again, and did her best to mend his wounded leg. She wanted Harrow's wounds to be painful, but not life-threatening. She was having difficulty restraining her bloodthirsty sisters, however. "We can't kill 'em!" she exclaimed. All the witches nodded their agreement. "If we kill him," Penstar reminded them, "Lorminstra may take pity on him and return him to her bosom."  
  
A dolphin suddenly leapt out of the water before them, turning several cartwheels in the air before disapearing underneath the surface in a quiet splash. "I could have blown his leg off you know," Larrista said, pouting.  
  
At last, Harrow finally managed to breathe again. He snarled. "At least I made you fashion forward witches swim," he spat. "How do you like being muddy?" This last insult snapped the patience of the witches like the spine of a rolton. Penstar snarled menacingly at her prisoner. "Fashion forward?" glared Desmonique. "I sorta like him," Narissa chuckled at Harrow, while Dafnie and a few others giggled.  
  
"Ok... Harrow," Cassioppia said, "Now tell us what we want, afore they 'urt ya."  
  
Harrow glanced around nervously, sensing he had pushed his luck as far as it would go. He dropped his dagger with a splash into the water, and slumped his shoulders. "All right," he said at last. "What do you want of me?" Cassioppia nodded with satisfaction.  
  
"Good start," Penstar answered. "Drop the book."  
  
"The book," Elleth screeched.  
  
"The book you miscreant," Desmonique said.  
  
Harrow waved a hand at Penstar, dismissing her indifferently. Seeing her quarry was not yet fully submissive, and fearing he would manage to escape again, Cassioppia quickly shot forth towards Harrow another spray of thick, viscous webbing. The recalcitrant elf once again found himself bound and immobile. "Jest dun't run," Cassioppia said quietly. "Because you know we can find you," added Penstar. "Even in your sleep," muttered Desmonique.  
  
"How can I run with a snapped leg?" the thief pointed out. Cassioppia nodded. He had a point there. "True," she admitted. "Did you steal a book from one of Penstar's manservants?"  
  
"No," replied Harrow, quite emphatically. "This is my book." Penstar smiled at his lie, and with raised eyebrows asked to see the book. Harrow plucked the book from his soggy cloak and held it up. He glanced at Cassioppia, thinking she might be his only salvation amongst the vengeful sisterhood.  
  
"Oh, why bother to ask him anything," tisked Narissa. "Just take it and be done with it. Take his whole arm."  
  
"Good plan," agreed Dafnie.  
  
"Do you think he will drop the book if we blow his arm off?" asked Desmonique.  
  
Harrow glared back at the evil sorceress Narissa. "Aw," she smirked, "he glares so cute!" Then, while witches began debating amongst themselves as to whether an itch curse or a scratch curse would cause him to drop the book, or whether a limb-breaking spell would do the trick, or just spray blood about the chamber. While the others were engaged in their debate like hens in a barnyard, Cassioppia quietly asked Harrow what his book was about. He showed it to her and Penstar. "Is that the book, Sister?" Cassioppia asked, cocking her head at Penstar. "Yes it is!" she exclaimed. Both sisters shifted their eyes to the cowering elf.  
  
"All right!" he finally exclaimed. "I took it because of the map written in the back. There are those who would pay dearly to know of this, the location of your Abbey." He tapped the leather-bound prayer book in his hands. "Some dislike the idea of powerfull, spellcasting women, and knowledge of your Abbey's location would be very valuable " he muttered.  
  
"Harrow," Cassioppia warned quietly, "I dun't know how long I can keep these witches at bay.. you should just hand it over.." She shivered, and showed him the collar bone and slick bundle of bloody intestines that hung like trophies from her belt. "These came from the fence who betrayed you to us." The Nalfein glanced nervously at her. With a sinister grin, Sister Larrista removed a wicked-looking brass tooth-puller from her cloak, and took a step towards Harrow, as if she meant to use it on him then and there. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "All right," he said quietly. "Just let me swim out of here and I'll give the book to Lady Penstar, who claims to be the owner." He waved an insolent hand at Narissa. "Here, take the cursed book," he snarled. With that, Harrow spat an elven oath and tossed the book to Penstar.  
  
"Penstar," Cassioppia asked, "is that what you were lookin fer?" She quickly flipped through the pages to the back of the book, and nodded at Cassioppia, smiling broadly. "Yes," Penstar exclaimed, "and it still has our map in it!"  
  
At that inopportune moment, the adventurer Dicendarq arrived with a splash. "Sure is crowded in here," he said cheerily. Desmonique smiled at the interloper. "Or pleasant," Narissa added, "depending on your viewpoint." Cassioppia smiled sweetly and leaned on Harrow, as if they were just old friends gathered in Charl's shrine for an afternoon picnic. But Harrow cried out "Help me, Dicendarq!" A few smiles and helpful spells from the assembled witches convinced the newcomer that it would be best if he left and forgot what he'd seen. Which he did. Then, they turned their attentions back to their captive.  
  
"What a shame he is still living, too," said Desmonique.  
  
"Now to turn him into a frog," threatened Penstar.  
  
Cassioppia plucked a lock of hair from his head, and showed it to him as a warning before tucking it away in her belt pouch.  
  
"You need to learn to be nice to women," Narissa scolded, "especially witches. Nasty things can happen to you, otherwise. Now, are we clear, Harrow?" Narissa asked, leaning on him.  
  
"You've not seen the last of me," he warned, narrowing his eyes.  
  
"I hope we have," said Penstar.  
  
"I hope not," grinned Narissa.  
  
Then Harrow took a deep breath, held his nose, and, despite the fractured and bleeding right leg that was his gift from the Coven, dove underneath the water's surface and was gone. 


	6. Poiniard's Tale Part One

Here's an introduction to my namesake, who just so happens to be a rogue. All reviews are welcome.  
  
===========================================================================  
  
"Stop, thief!" someone yelled. "Guards!" Poiniard thought that was odd. Another thief, working the same little street he was? He almost paused to look back, until he realized he was the thief they were shouting about. He was sure no one had seen him, but apparently someone had. He cursed his luck as he ran on, away from the Street of Scribes and down one of Culhaven's innumerable side alleys.  
  
The Street of Scribes was not really a street, but more of a small district. Long ago, it had been a single street, leading from Scribers Hall near the Old Wall down to the docks on the Sea of Cule. In those days, ship captains and caravan masters were forced to use the scribes' services. Poiniard had often wondered why every copper coin had to be greedily accounted for in some ink-stained ledger. Keeping their wealth in vaults in locked coffers wasn't enough? Now, the Scribes had but a tithe of their former importance, and Poiniard never even gave their dusty old guild hall a second thought. The Scribes kept their wealth in paper, not metal.  
  
He paused for a moment to see what his morning's exploits had gotten him. The small sack in his hand contained three gleaming silver targets and a handful of coppers. Not much. That and something else- a piece of parchment, rolled up and bound with a string. Whatever it was, he could look at that later. He tucked the coins into his own pouch and the paper into his boot, and tossed the empty, stolen bag away.  
  
Poiniard knew the town guard would never catch him. Once, he had been unlucky enough to slit a pouch when a trio of the King's Men had been nearby. The guards looked fearsome enough, with their mail and helms and pikes, but that same armor was heavy, and they clattered as they ran. Poiniard could go over walls and through grates, and the sweltering heat didn't wear him down as much as it did the armored guardsmen. He was more worried about escaping any civic-minded townsfolk who might be behind him.  
  
Them and the shopkeeper he'd just robbed. But he didn't see any angry mobs in pursuit, or the tops of the guardsmen's pikes bobbing over the heads of the throng, so he figured he had gotten away. He didn't want to take any chances, though, the way his luck had been lately. He set off again, more slowly this time.  
  
The whole place was a maze of shops, emporiums and craftsworks, but Poiniard knew the streets like the back of his hand. The buildings were crammed close together, three and even four stories high, each story sticking further out over the street than the one below. The buildings were washed in a panoply of bright colors, to set each one apart from its neighbors. The roofs were made of colorful tiles, so that, it was said, the city looked like a basket of flowers when seen from an approaching ship. Poiniard had never been to sea. Up close, Culhaven smelled like anything but flowers. It wasn't even noon, and he was already sweating. He wished winter would come sooner.  
  
It wasn't much later that Poiniard finally climbed up into the garret he called home. It was a tiny attic room, on the third floor of an ancient boarding house a good way from the Street of Scribes. He didn't use the stairs, because they creaked and seemed about to collapse. Every time he came in that way, he ran into someone who lived on one of the floors below, and he hated talking to his neighbors. It was just easier to climb the trellis and come in to his room through the window. He kept his door locked from the inside.  
  
He moved a few iron caltrops under the window, and went over to sit on his bedroll in the corner. His pillow and his cupboard were one and the same- a tattered sack of turnips. He took one out and began slicing his noontime meal.  
  
Poiniard wasn't alone. He shared his lodgings with a pair of old grey bats, Sagus and Magus. One of them was awake, and staring at him, but he wasn't sure which it was. He decided it must be Sagus.  
  
"Not much today, Sagus," he said. "Three targets and some cuppers." The bat, hanging upside down, looked at him. "Stop looking at me like that," he said. "I'm in a bind, and a man's gotta survive. How many times do I have to tell you that? I won't be thieving much longer, though. I'll get out before I get into any trouble with the guards or the guild, and set myself up in an honest living. Maybe I'll take up a trade." Poiniard really didn't know how to make an honest living- other than farming turnips, but he certainly wasn't going back to doing that.  
  
He glared up at the two bats hanging overhead, minding their own business. "Maybe you two are the cause of my problems. Bats are bad luck, they say." A handful of silver and copper coins was not much. His plan was not going well.  
  
Then he remembered the little scroll, and took it from his boot. He turned it over and back in his hand, examining it. Carefully, he removed the string and unrolled the paper. Poiniard could read "signs and shingles" well enough- almost everyone in Culhaven could- and for him, knowing the letters of the Trade Tongue was enough to get by in the city. But he also knew dwarven lettering when he saw it. There were two words written there, "Manyswords Mercantile," the name of a tiny armory near the end of the Street of Scribes. Tucking the paper back into his boot, he lay down on his blanket and decided to wait until dark. The bats said nothing.  
  
***  
  
It was well into the hour of Latewatch when Poiniard arrived outside Manyswords Mercantile. A light fog had rolled in, and there was thunder in the distance. The night air and sea breezes had cooled things somewhat, but it was still hot. The entire lane was dark, except for this one particular shop, where a lantern still hung in the window. Stange that it would still be open at such a late hour. Poiniard checked the dagger hidden in his wrist sheath, and took the paper from his boot. Carefully, he entered the shop.  
  
Except for a small door at the back, every available space on the walls inside the shop was covered with weapons, in racks of one sort or another. There were swords of all sizes and shapes, from daggers to claidhmores. There were axes, double-bladed and single. There were even a few pole-arms and spears. He saw no guards inside, just the shopkeeper by himself. Perhaps because of the lettering on the scroll, Poiniard had been expecting a dwarf. But it was a man who greeted him, or seemed to be. The shopkeeper wore heavy robes and a cloak despite the heat, with the hood of his cloak drawn up. His face was hidden in shadow.  
  
Poiniard eyed him suspiciously. "Eh, this is Manyswords Mercantile?" he asked.  
  
"Thou hast found it," said the shopkeeper, rising to his feet. "I am Manyswords." He spread his arms, indicating the variety of edged weapons for sale about the shop. "I sell all manner of weapons, not just swords, some imported, all of the finest quality." The man's voice was odd, sibilant. His accent sounded foreign. His manner of speaking was unfamiliar. To Poiniard, it sounded vaguely antiquated. Then the hooded man appeared to notice the scroll he was holding. "What interests you?"  
  
Poiniard looked about for the closest thing at hand. He picked up a sharp- edged coldsteel longsword. The sword had a hilt shaped like a pair of sweeping wings, with a trio of glittering rubies set in the tang. He pretended to examine the sword closely. It was probably worth more than he could steal in a year.  
  
The hooded man shook his head and took the sword from Poiniard's hand. As he did so, his sleeve brushed up against Poiniard's arm. The man paused. "Something a little less cumbersome might suit you better. Come, perhaps this one." The shopkeeper went to another case on the wall and brought down a sword, shorter than the first, and set with tourmalines instead of rubies. "This one is much easier to.carry."  
  
"Hrm, that one looks quite nice," Poiniard lied. "How much?"  
  
"If I let this one go for less than a thousand crowns, twould be a steal."  
  
Poiniard didn't like the sound of that. Had he caught some double meaning? He couldn't make out the man's face to read anything from his eyes. Did the hooded man suspect? There was definitely something strange and sorcerous about this fellow. Poiniard decided not to press his luck. "Erm, not today, thankee," he mumbled, and started backing towards the door.  
  
"Wait, wait," the man almost hissed. Poiniard thought he sensed some urgency in his voice, but could not be sure. "Let me show thee this, instead." He took out a third sword, about the same length as the first, but not as ornate, and without the jewels. The blade was not shiny, and seemed to be made out of something other than steel. The hilts were burnished, the pommel plain and unadorned. "Mayhaps this is more to your liking?" He held it out to Poiniard. "This is Wyrding."  
  
Poiniard blinked. That meant nothing to him, but he liked the look of the weapon.  
  
"Wyrding," repeated the hooded man. "The scourge of Damral Hill, once wielded by Thog Darkblade himself, slayer of demons, maker of kings, legendary blade of the Wolfbrands. And here it is, in my shop. I told you, lad, I sell only the finest weaponry."  
  
In spite of himself, Poiniard was intrigued. Not so much by the supposed lineage of the thing, that was probably a lie. But the thought of having a longsword suddenly appealed to him. He took the sword in his hand. He'd come here perhaps to rob the place, but now he found himself wanting to actually buy this sword. He imagined how he would look wielding it. His father used to be a soldier, before he had retired to the farm. His older brother had gone off to become a mercenary- something which pleased his father if not his mother. Poiniard himself had left home to become a mercenary as well, but that had not lasted long. He wasn't a fighter. "What is the price?"  
  
"Three silver targets," said the man.  
  
"I'll give you two," answered Poiniard.  
  
***  
  
The streets outside of Manyswords' were empty, but Poiniard looked twice to be sure. He thought he heard the sound of boots on cobblestones around the corner. If a guard patrol happened upon him after dark with a naked blade, he'd be taken to the dungeons for sure, but he had no sheath to put it in.  
  
Next to Manysword's was a candleshop. He tore down the banner hanging over the door and used it to wrap Wyrding. He slung his bundle over his shoulder and quickly made his way back to his boarding house. Climbing the trellis was easy, even while holding his sword in the other hand. Once inside, he lit a candle, drew the curtains and unwrapped Wyrding. He sat holding the sword in his lap.  
  
Poiniard couldn't believe his luck. He'd found a magic sword, he was sure of it. No one with a name like "Thog Darkblade" would use anything but a magic sword. He carefully touched the edge of the blade with his thumb, checking its sharpness. According to legend, magical swords were made by the dwarves. The most famous swords were all owned by kings and great lords, kept locked away in vaults and armories, swords like Spellbinder and Giantslayer. Perhaps this one would bring him good luck, or grant him seven wishes. Now, that would surely be useful. But, no matter how hard he tried, Wyrding didn't seem to do any of those things.  
  
He closed his eyes, and wished very hard for a bag of gold. He took a pair of unweighted dice from his pouch and rolled them three times while holding the sword in his other hand. It didn't seem to have any affect. He looked around for Sagus and Magus, but they were not there. He wished they were, in case bats blood were somehow necessary to awaken the sword's powers. The sword felt good in his hand, well-balanced. He swung Wyrding easily back and forth a few times, cutting through the air, but it neither sang nor burst into flames.  
  
Then another thought occured to him, and he scowled. Some magical swords were said to be cursed. Some were cursed so that you could never drop them. He quickly let go of Wyrding, but it just fell to the floor like a normal sword would. Others brought bad luck, or insanity, or drove their wielder into a frenzy of killing. Wyrding didn't seem to do any of those things, either.  
  
"Oh well," he sighed, speaking to no one in particular. "In the morning, maybe I can find a diviner to tell me something about you." Poiniard had never gone to a sorcerer before. In fact, he tried to avoid them whenever possible. But hedge-wizards and soothsayers were easily found along the Street of Scribes. He still had a few cuppers left, and that should be enough for a simple reading. He carefully put Wyrding on the floor beneath his bedroll, replaced the caltrops guarding the window and snuffed out his candle. Before he went to sleep, Poiniard opened the curtains so the bats could get back in when the sun came up.  
  
***  
  
Poiniard rose early and went to the Well Market, a square along the Street of Scribes. During the day, the place was filled with the stalls and wagons of travelling merchants, and throngs of travellers and townsfolk. After dusk, the Well Market emptied somewhat, leaving only a great stone fountain in the middle of its cobblestone expanse. To one side was the sign of the Dancing Bear, a passable three-story inn with a raucous tavern that stayed open well past dark. Poiniard frequented it on occasion. In truth, he knew the place well, and that was how he had first come to meet Bhenyamin the Magician, who lived around the corner.  
  
He wore his new sword in a plain sheath at his side. It felt a little awkward at first, carrying a real weapon, not just knives and throwing daggers. It made him feel important, somehow, like some great hero of the north, or maybe it just fired his imagination. It also made him feel conspicuous, so he tried to walk with the sheath pressed close against his leg. His eyes lingered on the fat purse of a wealthy Pomaini, hanging unheeded from his belt while he haggled with a wine-seller who had just opened his stand. But Poiniard ignored the temptation and pressed on, making his way towards the alley beside the Dancing Bear. He had not come to pick pockets.  
  
"Excuse me!"  
  
Poiniard nearly jumped at the voice. Fool that he was, he had walked right into a woman coming out of the Dancing Bear. "Sorry," he stammered. "Pardon me, I was not paying atten-" He stood gaping at the woman before him. Her clothing was plain enough that Poiniard had not even noticed her at first. She didn't wear a dress or gown, rather a belted tunic and trousers like a man. But from the sound of her voice and the curly auburn hair that spilled out from her hood, there was no doubt she was a woman. When she pulled back the hood of her cloak, he saw that her slim face was perhaps the most beautiful he had ever seen. Her eyes were brown, and thankfully Poiniard saw in them right away that she was not offended by his rudeness.  
  
Her companion was another matter. He stood beside her protectively and loomed over them both. The man was taller than Poiniard by a head, at least. His shoulders were intimidatingly broad. He wore a dark green cloak over leather armor set with metal studs. His great, black beard stuck out down to his chest. In one giant hand, the man held a sturdy cudgel, almost large enough to be called a tree.  
  
"Move along, little man," he said in a bearlike voice.  
  
For a moment, Poiniard thought the woman's eyes had wandered to Wyrding at his side, but when he looked back, even her tall guardian had already disappeared into the crowd.  
  
***  
  
The Magician Bhenyamin sat alone in the shade behind the inn like a beggar. He wore tattered robes of heavy velvet despite the season, and Poiniard wanted to pinch his nose at the stench coming off him. His hair was a grey tangle, and his wrinkled hands shook incessantly. Before him was a wooden cup and the box which held his magical components- chicken bones and rat fur and other such things.  
  
"This man was truly a great wizard, once," Poiniard thought. Then he blinked. That thought had come unbidden into his mind. What could have made him think that? He chided himself for a fool. The old man sitting there looked more like a charlatan than a wizard. "Greetings," he said. "I have come for-"  
  
"I know why you are here," Bhenyamin snapped. "You want answers." The old wizard peered at him intently. "Ah, yes, I know you. Poiniard you call yourself."  
  
Poiniard had no idea the man even knew his name, let alone remembered him, but then sorcerers were nothing if not surprising. He sat down beside Bhenyamin with as much respect as he could muster.  
  
"You want answers," repeated Bhenyamin, tapping the wooden cup with a gnarled hand. Poiniard dropped in his last few coins. He drew Wyrding from its sheath and handed the sword to Bhenyamin. He looked to the old fortuneteller expectantly.  
  
"Hrm, this is very old," Bhenyamin said.  
  
Well, that was something at least. "What does it do?"  
  
"Do?"  
  
"Yes, what are its powers?"  
  
"Well, it is very old," he said.  
  
"Yes, you just said that. But is that all? Is it magic?"  
  
Bhenyamin rolled his eyes. Thog Darkblade once wielded this sword. "Of course it is magic."  
  
"But what kind of magic?" Poiniard asked. "Will it bring me good luck?"  
  
The fortuneteller thought for a moment. "Perhaps with a magic sword, you will try things you would not otherwise attempt, and succeeding in them, you might consider yourself lucky."  
  
That thought had never occurred to Poiniard before. "So, you mean it is a lucky sword?"  
  
Bhenyamin did not answer. Instead, he rubbed his hand along the blade, muttering to himself. "Hrm, now that's interesting."  
  
Poiniard leaned forward. "What?"  
  
"With this blade, you will move about silently and unseen in the shadows."  
  
Poiniard sighed. He did that well enough already. "Anything else?"  
  
"Any lock will spring open at a touch of this enchanted blade."  
  
At last! Poiniard couldn't believe his luck. This was finally his road to wealth and fortune. He would finally be able to put the life of a peasant behind him forever. With the help of this magical sword, he could become wealthy, prosperous, comfortable.  
  
"Magic does not come without its price," Bhenyamin added.  
  
"What does that mean?" Poiniard asked, suddenly alarmed. "Is it cursed?"  
  
"Cursed? I'm not sure what you mean."  
  
"You know, cursed!" Poiniard spluttered. What kind of sorcerer didn't know what a curse was? "Will bad things happen to me if I keep it?"  
  
"Did bad things happen to you BEFORE you came upon this sword?"  
  
Poiniard nodded dubiously.  
  
"Well, there you are, then. Swords are either magic or they are not, you know."  
  
Poiniard sighed. "I mean, will it bring me BAD luck? Will it make me go blind, or mad?"  
  
"Ah, now I see what you are asking." The old man shook his head. "A sword cannot be cursed. Only people can be cursed. But magic does not come without its price."  
  
"Yes, you said that already."  
  
Bhenyamin straightened up and handed back the sword. "Rest easy, Poiniard," he said. "Wyrding is yours now."  
  
"Thank you," said Poiniard. He got up to leave.  
  
"Until whichever long-dead wizard forged the thing comes looking for it," Bhenyamin added with a mischievous smile.  
  
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This work of original fiction is © Poiniard (FanFiction ID 68338). All rights reserved. Distribution of any kind is prohibited without the written consent of the author. 


	7. Poiniard's Tale Part Two

Somewhere, in the depths of an ancient forest, two gods met to discuss the affairs of the world. One seemed to be a part of the forest itself, somehow. He took the form of a man, young and lithe, but he was tall, and massive. Leaves grew from his green skin, and the grass reached up to caress his feet as he walked. "Perhaps the Sage will not aid us in this matter," the Green Man said. His voice sounded like the creak of an ancient tree battered by a storm.  
  
His compatriot looked as out-of-place in the forest as any god could be. A warrior he seemed, clad in black mail, finer than any hauberk ever made by man or dwarf or elf. Swords hung sheathed at his hip on either side, and another pair hung across his back. Still more swords fluttered about him, of their own accord, or perhaps at his will. The Swordlord turned to his companion. "He has grown weak- as have we all, since the Veil was laid down."  
  
"Lifting the Veil now would hasten the return of our old foe, the Ancient One. It could mean an end to elves and men."  
  
"Then we shall have to be very careful," said the Swordlord.  
  
A bat came fluttering into their glade. A sleeping unicorn, reclining against a tree, opened an eye, but decided it was no threat to the Lord of the Forest, or his compatriot. The bat landed on the Swordlord's outstretched hand, amidst the storm of whirling blades that surrounded him. "Is this one of yours?"  
  
The Green Man shook his head. Swordlord peered at the bat, lips pursed, as if listening. "Ah," he said after a moment. "The Hooded Sage has done as we asked."  
  
"Wyrding has a bearer?" the old sylvan god asked. It was not often that he was surprised, but the times were changing.  
  
The Swordlord simply nodded as the bat again took flight.  
  
***  
  
Poiniard crouched in the dark alleyway alongside two thieves from the guild. He had brought along Wyrding, but kept it in his sheath.  
  
"Did you hear about the death in the marketplace today?" Grimsley asked. "The old magician Bhenyamin."  
  
Poiniard nearly choked. "That's impossible! I just spoke to him myself this morning."  
  
"You really are bad luck, my friend," Furtim laughed. "Now it's rubbing off on to other people. Perhaps you should go to church more often."  
  
"It's true, though," said Grimsley, who rarely joked. "They found him dead in his home near the Street. They say twas a horrible death, too- blood splattered on the walls, body torn, parts missing. Good riddance, I say."  
  
"Sounds like old Bhenyamin musta conjured up one too many dark spirits," said Furtim."His soul is probably down in the Frozen Hells where it belongs. Thems who traffick with demons do so at their own peril."  
  
"Hist!" whispered Grimsley. "Look sharp, lads." The three thieves withdrew into the shadows of the alleyway behind the Inn of the Dancing Bear. Their quarry had just appeared. He was a well-dressed man with a half-empty wine bottle in his hand.  
  
"I give up," whispered Grimsley. Furtim rolled his eyes. The chest was too heavy and bulky for them to lift, and it was secured to the floor. If they failed to defeat the lock, they would have to give up. The night's venture would be a complete failure. Of the three thieves, Furtim was the best. He was a Journeyman in the guild. Furtim had already taken his turn trying to unlock the great iron-bound chest, with no success. He'd broken his best lockpick in the process. Both looked at Poiniard.  
  
"You might as well give it a try, Poin," Grimsley said in disgust, handing him a set of lockpicks.  
  
Poiniard had little thieving experience, besides picking pockets. He didn't even have his own set of thieving tools yet. All that he knew about mechanical locks was what little Furtim and Grimsley had taught him. He took the tools a little hesitantly, but not because he was afraid to try. If Furtim couldn't do it, no one would expect him to be able to pick the lock. Something else was bothering him, making his palms itch. He kept glancing nervously out the window to the empty, moonlit street below.  
  
"Hurry up," urged Grimsley.  
  
Furtim looked at him curiously. "Poin, what's wrong?"  
  
Poiniard shrugged. He had no answer, but something was wrong. It wasn't guards, and it wasn't the drunk merchant. He was still snoring comfortably in the next room, passed out. Something was lurking outside in the shadows. He hadn't seen it, but he could sense it somehow. Poiniard didn't know why, but he drew Wyrding. The longsword made a little rasp as it slid from his sheath. Furtim and Grimsley practically jumped out of their boots. In an instant, their daggers were out.  
  
Grimsley glared at Poiniard. "What in the Frozen Hells are you doing?"  
  
Furtim breathed a sigh of relief. "Poin, you scared me," he said. The next room was silent, except for the snoring. "I thought someone was coming."  
  
"You crazy nurker," hissed Grimsley. "Put that thing away before you hurt somebody."  
  
Furtim nodded. "You'd better have a go at that lock, Poin, or else let's get out of here."  
  
"I don't know why you brought that thing, anyway," muttered Grimsley.  
  
Poiniard looked at the sword in his hand, unsure of himself. "I'm sorry," he said. He couldn't explain why he'd drawn it out, either. He turned to look at the lock on the chest. His palms were still itching. But now that he had the sword in his hands, he decided to test the words of Bhenyamin. Cautiously, he touched the tip of Wyrding to the lock. The lock sprang open! The three men stared in disbelief.  
  
"Well I'll be buggered," exclaimed Grimsley.  
  
"You must have gotten it after all, Grim," said Furtim.  
  
Poiniard nodded, but he wasn't so sure. He handed the tools back to Grimsley, and sheathed Wyrding. Grimsley still looked dubious, but they didn't have time to worry about what had happened. Quickly, the three thieves emptied the chest and divided the spoils. Then they went out the window and down their black rope.  
  
Poiniard felt some approaching peril, and dropped to the ground. "Be on your guard," he warned. His two companions looked back at him, bemused. Poiniard's warning of impending danger came just in time. An unearthly chill seemed to descend on the dark alleyway. Three men appeared out of the shadows, moving towards the thieves.  
  
Then, two figures appeared at the other end of the alleyway- a grey-cloaked woman in leather armor and a tall man with a black beard. The woman cried out something in a language Poiniard did not recognize, but by her tone, he knew it was a challenge. The three attackers turned as one to face her, and she drew her blade, a slim, curved sword. Poiniard suddenly recognized the woman as the one he had bumped into outside the Dancing Bear.  
  
Her tall companion was with her. The bearded giant raised his staff and uttered ancient words of Power. There was a sound like splintering wood, and the strange chill went away as suddenly as it had arisen. Poiniard looked up, and saw that one of their attackers now lay dead, while the other two stood dazed. Their forms, outlined with purplish, ghostly flames, twisted and grew, until they no longer appeared to be men.  
  
"Trolls!" exclaimed Furtim.  
  
"No such thing," Grimsley countered, but he dropped his pack and drew his dagger nonetheless. Poiniard could not believe his eyes. Trolls were creatures of legend, evil shapechangers and servants of wizards. His heart froze. They had come to retrieve Wyrding!  
  
"Attack them now," ordered the bearded spellcaster. His voice sounded strained. "Quickly. You must kill them while I have them forced into their true forms."  
  
The thieves glanced from the wizard and his companion to the three trolls. Furtim and Grimsley cowered back, their daggers held before them, waiting for a chance to flee or strike. The woman leapt forward, her sword glittering in her hand. Poiniard hesitated a moment, then drew his own sword and followed her. Taking advantage of the distraction, Furtim and Grimsley ran off into the night, leaving their packs behind.  
  
Poiniard and the woman with the sword faced off against the two remaining trolls, standing side by side. The woman's blade was a silver blur just outside his field of vision. His brief training as a mercenary helped him little, but Poiniard had no time to think as he fended off the attacks of the troll. Wydring seemed to move almost on its own, fending off the troll's claws. Poiniard heard nothing, only the rushing of his own blood, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He had just managed to wound his troll when the other troll went down at the woman's feet. She quickly turned and finished the second.  
  
"I must dispose of these bodies," said the woman's companion, coming up behind them. The cloaked man knelt over the three slain trolls, doing something with his hands that Poiniard thankfully couldn't see.  
  
Poiniard saw that the woman wore ornate leather armor of curious design. She moved gracefully.  
  
"Troll bodies have to be destroyed or consecrated," she explained, "else the foul magic that gives the things life would return. That was very brave of you, but foolish," she said. "You should have fled with your companions. Trolls are very dangerous."  
  
Poiniard knelt to pick up Furtim and Grimsley's packs, watching her from the corner of his eye. He didn't need to ask what three trolls had been doing in the middle of Culhaven. He shook his head. "If I had run, they would only have followed me. It was me they were after."  
  
The woman eyed him curiously, and his sword. "What is your name?"  
  
"Poiniard."  
  
She smiled. In the fading light of the wizard's purple flames, it was the most beautiful smile Poiniard could remember. "My name is Mheren," she said. "And this is Brandt."  
  
The bearded mage was finished with the trolls. "Hold out your swords," he ordered. Mheren obeyed without question, and she nodded to Poiniard, indicating that he should do the same. "They must be cleansed as well," Brandt explained. The wizard muttered a few words Poiniard could not make out, and he touched each blade in turn. The wizard's eyes widened as he touched Wyrding, but he said nothing.  
  
"We need to be away from here," Mheren warned, sheathing her sword. She glanced over at Brandt, who nodded. "Poiniard," she asked, "how would you like to come with us? We are staying at the Dancing Bear."  
  
Poiniard wondered what kind of danger he might be putting them in. "I suppose," he answered. "Move along, little man," Brandt said with a chuckle. 


	8. Poiniard's Tale Part Three

CHAPTER THREE  
  
The Inn of the Dancing Bear occupied an enviable location, right along the market square off the Street of Scribes. It was a sprawling collection of wood and stone buildings, most of them several stories. It was capable of housing as many as a hundred guests at any time, and the place did a brisk business year round. The Bear boasted two taprooms- one off the entryway that served as a tavern to the many local patrons who dropped by, those with an interest in foreign, outlandish folk, and a second, smaller one converted over from a root cellar that was open only to guests of the proprietor.  
  
"We'd best approach carefully," Brandt said, gripping his staff in one bearlike hand. He towered over Poiniard, and the thief tried to stay out of his way. Brandt pulled back the hood of his forest green cloak, revealing an unkempt mane of thick, black hair streaked with grey. His features were strong, like the man had been chiseled from rock. Poiniard thought he had the look of a warlord more than a wizard, but even without armor Brandt was an intimidating sight.  
  
Poiniard looked over at Mheren and wondered at her relationship with Brandt. In some respects, they seemed to act as equals, but there was little affection to it. They acted rather as companions. He had seen enough mercenaries in his life to know what true comradeship looked like- swordbrother's who'd faced grim death together, who trusted one another with their lives. Brandt and Mheren were like that. He could not figure out whether it was Mheren and her sword who protected Brandt, or the wizard and his magic who guarded the woman. Perhaps it was both. Poiniard envied them for that. He had never known such friendship. Certainly, there was no one like that in the Guild. Furtim and Grimsley were his friends. They might watch him in a fight, but only for their own good. He didn't think he'd trust them to watch over him while he slept. Yet that was the impression he got from watching Brandt and Mheren.  
  
He noticed other things, too. Small details about their gear which suggested they were longtime companions, or members of the same company. They wore no tabards or livery, but several of the items each wore seemed similar, like their boots and cloaks, as if they'd been made or bought at the same time, and had been worn through the same adventures.  
  
As they approached the entrance to the Bear, Mheren suddenly whispered "Get back!" Her voice was urgent but low, so that only he and Brandt could hear her. Mheren planted a gloved hand squarely in Poiniard's chest and pushed him back against the wall of the inn, surprising him with her strength. Brandt glided silently into the shadows as well, drawing up his hood. Poiniard could see the wizard's dark eyes peering curiously at the swordswoman. "Look," she explained, pointing.  
  
Four knights reigned in at the entrance to the Bear. All were clad in chain mail, with flowing cloaks of black trimmed in silver. They wore high black riding boots and helms which covered their faces. From the saddlebags on their warhorses, Poiniard guessed they had just arrived in Culhaven from a long journey overland. They must have ridden hard to arrive so late in the city. It was well past dark. He wondered at that, for the landward gates were usually kept locked and guarded after sunset. These four must be nobles, or some other important figures to have gained access to Culhaven at night. He noticed that each of the riders wore a black tunic, and across the breast was a silver ship. Two of them wore broadswords at their belt, while the others carried maces.  
  
Brandt sniffed the air, and Poiniard could swear the man's lips were curled in a snarl. "Coth-curai," Brandt muttered. The Knights of the Sea. Mheren nodded.  
  
Poiniard had heard of that Order, once or twice in his life. Everyone in the Middle Kingdoms probably had. The Knights of Coth-curai were said to be the strongest and wealthiest order of knighthood, with advisors in the courts of every great city. They were said to be heavily involved in trade, and their far-flung caravanseries were said to house great store of wealth, the envy of kings and princes. They were said to dwarf even the wealth of the Scribes. But no one had ever seen one of these hoards.  
  
The Order had no chapterhouse in Culhaven. The city was on the northern coasts, and its trade came and went by ship. The cities of the Northern Sea were small and poor by southern standards, so the Knights had never come there. Poiniard knew that the Guilds who ran Culhaven were no friends of the coth-curai, and he'd heard rumors that the free towns of the Culian League opposed the Knights on some important trade-related matter. So he thought it strange to see a group of them coming to the Dancing Bear after dark, and wondered if perhaps they'd finally come to establish one of their famed countinghouses. That would be valuable news to his Guild, if it were true.  
  
The foremost of the Knights dismounted and, removing her helmet, shook out her long, golden hair. Poiniard was surprised to see they were led by a woman. She handed the reigns of her horse to one of her companions and strode proudly into the Dancing Bear, heedless of the emerging throng of gawking visitors and townsfolk.  
  
Poiniard wondered why Mheren had them hiding in the shadows. Surely, three folk who minded their own business had nothing to fear from these southerners. He looked at Mheren. There was no fear in her eyes, but her mouth was drawn tight. She was as tense as a bowstring. The other three knights still sat atop their warhorses, surveying the inn and the street in the torchlight. One of them carried a lantern, but Poiniard could not make out their faces, because of the helms that each wore. Each had a small iron circle on the crown, a symbol of the Church of the Four Gods.  
  
He'd always heard that the Coth-curai were a pious, ecclesiastic order, faithful to the Circle, monks as well as moneylenders. There had always been whispered rumors about the Knights of the Sea, whose great monasteries were mostly in the ancient, glittering cities of the southern deserts, built to guard the ancient holy sites that were there. Still, rumors persisted that the Knights got their power and wealth not from the Church they upheld, but rather from the ancient sites they built upon.  
  
"First trolls, now this," Mheren hissed. Seeing Poiniard's confused look, she leaned close. "It would make all our lives easier if we could just avoid these Knights. Brandt and I know their leader."  
  
"Fierce as a wolf, that one," Brandt said. "She's none too fond of spellcasters, especially those who aren't firmly under the control of the Knights."  
  
Poiniard almost quailed. "Do you think she killed Bhenyamin?"  
  
"Who?" Brandt asked.  
  
"The hedge wizard who was found dead in the marketplace this morning," Mheren explained.  
  
"Ah," the big man said. Then he nodded. "No, lad, that was not the Knights. The coth-curai are the sort to clap a wizard in irons and drag him off to one of their castles for interrogation. Though they have been known to break fingers and cut out tongues, the worst they usually do to the wizards they catch are bruises and a few years of rough treatment."  
  
"It was trolls that got to Bhenyamin," Mheren added quietly.  
  
That sent a chill up Poiniard's spine, and he found himself clutching Wyrding for reassurance. Though he'd not actually seen the old fortuneteller's corpse- or what was left of it- a vivid picture of the scene remained in his mind. Their own encounter with the trolls did little to comfort him. He wondered if maybe he should just toss Wyrding in the river and be done with it.  
  
"Brandt, we ought to get out of the city as quickly as we can," Mheren said, "but I've got to get our gear and horses, first. You and Poiniard wait here, I'll go around the back and-"  
  
The wizard made a bearlike growl and shook his head. "No, lass," he rumbled. "I am still tired from our battle with the trolls, but not so tired that I'll wait here like a nursemaid while you- "  
  
"Well, where in the Nine Hells are the others, then?" Mheren asked. "They were supposed to meet us here. Curse that Gimbal, when I find him, I'll flay his lazy green hide."  
  
"Mai gohven ani vanion."  
  
Poiniard nearly jumped. The quiet voice came from right behind him. The three companions all turned to face the speaker, but Wyrding remained quietly in Poiniard's sheath. He found himself staring into the eyes of an elf. The eyes of a killer.  
  
The elf was thin and pale, and his eyes gleamed in the dark. His silver- trimmed blue cloak was thrown back over his shoulders, revealing a vest of mail, seemingly made of linked silver leaves. Jewels were at his belt and on the clasp of his cloak. His hood was down, revealing a head of silvery hair drawn back behind his pointed ears. The elf wore boots of supple leather, and a tooled baldric from which hung a slim longsword and a curved knife. He wore a quiver of arrows on his back, and carried a longbow of darkwood. He smiled at Poiniard. "Who is this?"  
  
"Mai gohvenal," Brandt said quietly, the traditional response to the elven greeting. "Greetings, Harrow. This is Poiniard."  
  
Harrow gave Poiniard a dubious look, then smiled at Mheren. "There is no need to flay our gnomish friend tonight, Mheren. He's inside, right where I told him to be. As soon as we saw the Coth-curai, I slipped out the back to keep an eye on things out here."  
  
Mheren gestured towards the three knights waiting by the door. "What are they doing here?"  
  
The elf shrugged. "Who can say? It's damned odd for them to be so far north, but who can say? I doubt they have anything to do with us." He gave Mheren a little smirk. "You recognize their trailcaptain?"  
  
Mheren nodded. "Our old friend, Jenas." She glanced at the elf. "And there's no need to be snide about it."  
  
Harrow grinned, and Poiniard decided he might grow to like this elf after all.  
  
"Is there a wizard staying at the Bear tonight?" Brandt asked.  
  
Harrow shrugged again. "Not that we've seen. If there is, he's very good, or very discreet." He looked over at the Knights. "I don't think they're here for an Inquisition. There hasn't been a wizard in Culhaven since the river caught fire. Isn't that right, Poiniard?"  
  
"I don't honestly know." Poiniard sensed something in the elf's question. He was being tested. "I've not lived here that long," he said. He thought it best not to mention Bhenyamin. Still, most folk knew the story. Ten winters ago, a cabal of firemagi had come to Culhaven and tried to take control of the guilds. The town would have no part of it, though, and the guards and the militia took up arms against them. Many men died in the fighting, it was said, but it was no force of arms which brought down the cabal. The wizards turned on each other when it became apparent that Culhaven would not submit to their rule without a fight. During the battle, a good part of the city burned, and the River Cule itself caught fire. The town suffered through a dark week of chaos and fire before a battalion of coth-curai arrived, and put an end to the firemagi. The townsfolk were grateful, but the guildmasters wanted the Knights of the Sea about as much as they wanted the wizards. The coth-curai left completely soon after. Poiniard always wondered how the knights had arrived so quickly. Their nearest monestary was at Wintra, a good ten days ride to the south, and he never wholly believed the tale.  
  
Harrow sniffed, and Poiniard suddenly felt again like the turnip farmer he was. He tightened his grip on Wyrding.  
  
"Well," Brandt asked, "if they're not here on the trail of some untrained wizardling, and it's not us they're after, then what brings them here?"  
  
"And of all the Knights, why does it have to be HER?" Mheren grumbled. "Well, there's no need to tangle with them tonight. You three stay here and keep a watch. I'll go in through the back. We can still be well away from here by dawn."  
  
"Hold," said the elf. "You can't go in that way, either."  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"That's where I left Gimbal, in the back room." The elf smiled briefly, evidently enjoying the consternation and confusion on their faces. "There's other guests at the inn tonight as well. They arrived at the Bear this afternoon, while you and Brandt and our new friend here were out doing whatever-it-was. Pomainians they are, and rough to look at. They said they were looking for a certain member of the royal house-"  
  
"Curse my luck," Mheren said, shrugging off Brandt's comforting hand from her shoulder. "Has everyone from my past come here to haunt me tonight? Is the Darkblade inside, too, come to ask me to come back and fight for him in another war?"  
  
Harrow chuckled. "Or perhaps Lord Megedaine?"  
  
Brandt growled. "Shut your mouth, Harrow."  
  
The elf scowled. "Well, this IS the best inn in Culhaven. But you can't go in through the back, Mheren, or your father's hirelings will spot you."  
  
"You said Gimbal's in there with them?"  
  
Harrow chuckled. "Buying them drinks, no doubt. I told you he was looking out for you, Mheren, whatever you think. You can wring his neck later. For now, why don't you wait in the stables. Get your horses ready to ride. I'll get Gault and Hafgrim and bring your gear out. Don't worry about these folk here- we'll distract them for you. You ride for Pelham, and we'll catch up to you later."  
  
"Thank you, Harrow," Brandt said.  
  
"First trolls, now this," Mheren said again.  
  
"Trolls?" Harrow asked. "What are you talking about?" His eyes narrowed.  
  
Brandt nodded. "Three of them attacked us in an alleyway earlier."  
  
"By the Great Hunter," the elf snapped, appearing truly angry for the first time. "This is more deadly than I feared. I told you we should not have gotten mixed up in all this. We've stuck our heads in a nest of hornets. I only hope we can get out."  
  
Feeling as if he was to blame for their most serious peril, Poiniard unobtrusively drew his cloak around himself, hiding Wyrding from sight.  
  
"Well," Brandt said, "maybe Gault will get to try out that new axe of his after all."  
  
***  
  
Mheren immediately went over to their two horses and began to saddle them, in preparation for their flight from the city. "We've only the two horses between us, Poiniard, so you'll have to ride behind me."  
  
Poiniard nodded. He had been around horses before- the sort used to pull plows and wagons. He had no experience in riding them. But he looked over at the beautiful swordswoman, and the thought of sharing a saddle with her didn't sound so bad. She had hung her cloak over a peg, and he saw that she was clad from head to toe in well-worn, tight-fitting leathers, the kind worn for both fighting and riding. Without a cloak, Mheren's armor did little to conceal her athletic form.  
  
Brandt chuckled, and Poiniard blushed. He'd been caught staring. Mheren didn't seem to have noticed, so he sat down in the hay a respectful distance from the wizard. Brandt was sitting cross-legged on the floor, rummaging through his travel-stained pack. The dim lighting gave Brandt an ominous look. Poiniard half expected him to produce a skull or claw or some other instrument of sorcery. Brandt pulled two apples from his pack and tossed one to Poiniard.  
  
"Have a few bites, lad," he said between mouthfuls. "On a night like this, you never know when you might get a chance to eat." They sat in silence for a while, Brandt eyeing Poiniard thoughtfully. "I find it strange," he said suddenly, "that two magical swords would remain in such close proximity. They rarely choose to work together."  
  
"Choose?" Poiniard asked. Two swords? Did he mean Mheren?  
  
"Magical swords often have personalities of their own."  
  
Poiniard felt Wyrding hanging heavy from his belt. He had no inkling swords could even have personalities. "What do you mean?"  
  
Brandt's answer was cut off by a crash from outside. It came from the direction of the inn, the sound of breaking crockery. Brandt sighed. "Whenever Gimbal's around, there's bound to be drinking," he said. "Hopefully you'll get a chance to meet him before this is all over. For a gnome, he's really not all that- " There was another crash, a heavy thud and the sound of splintering wood. "And when there's drinking, Gault and Hafgrim are bound to be fighting," he said, tossing away his apple core and getting to his feet.  
  
Mheren had not yet finished saddling their horses, but she came over and handed Brandt his staff. She had heard the sounds as well, and looked concerned. "I just hope that's my father's spies and not the Knights they're brawling with."  
  
Poiniard finally worked up the courage to ask Mheren something he'd been wondering- who was her father? Some wealthy merchant, perhaps? And why was he sending men after her? He wished he had a drink of something. Then he'd ask. But then, he heard a voice.  
  
"To arms," it said. "Sorcery!" Another loud crash came from across the courtyard outside.  
  
Mheren and Brandt looked up with a start. A chill ran down Poiniard's spine as he realized both he and Mheren were standing there with swords drawn. He couldn't remember doing that.  
  
"This is no mere brawl," Brandt said. They could quite plainly hear the sounds of combat- the clashing of swords, the cries of wounded men. They rushed to the stable doorways and saw that the far side of the courtyard was filled with people, and that the inn was afire. But Poiniard's eyes were drawn away from the commotion. In the shadows beneath the wall, a sinister hulking figure was creeping towards them. The shadows were moving. Wyrding throbbed in his hand. A chill fell over them.  
  
"Mheren, take Poiniard and get out of here," Brandt ordered. No one moved. Brandt's expression darkened, and he seemed to grow taller. Evidently, he was not accustomed to having his orders questioned. "Forget the horses. I'll hold them off. Go- NOW!" This time, there was no hesitation. Mheren dashed out into the night.  
  
Poiniard felt a strong hand grip his shoulder as he went to follow her. It was Brandt. He released his hold and drew an amulet from beneath his tunic. He pressed it into Poiniard's hand. "She would never let me give this to her," he said, "but it will be more useful to her than to me. Soon, she will have need of it. You must keep it for her and give it to her once you are safe outside the city."  
  
"What is it?" Poiniard asked, though he already knew the answer. A magic sword had already taken over his life. The last thing he needed was a magic charm.  
  
Brandt gave him a comforting smile. "Nothing so ancient or powerful as Wyrding, I assure you. But a potent little bit of magic in its own fashion. Call it an heirloom, a reminder for Mheren of better days, of a time she will one day recall with fondness. She will regret it if it is lost, though now she would as soon throw it in a fire. Keep it for her, for a while."  
  
Poiniard slipped the amulet around his neck.  
  
"Mheren may act as if she is sure about everything," Brandt continued, "but this I must tell you. She is not at home on the streets of a city after dark. You are, I judge, or at least moreso than she. YOU will have to guide HER out of Culhaven. If you don't know the way, then you will have to trust to your instincts." His eyes twinkled, reflecting the light of the burning inn. "I think you will find them surprisingly reliable."  
  
"I hope so," Poiniard said. If nothing else, he was due for some good luck for a change.  
  
"Cheer up," Brandt said. "After all, you've still got three bags of gold."  
  
That did little to brighten his spirits. Poiniard stepped outside. Mheren stood atop the wall, sword drawn, waiting for him. Poiniard glanced down at the sword in his hand, and thought of the trolls he knew were in the courtyard. That was why Wyrding was forged, to slay the evil spawn of sorcerers, to hew their twisted limbs and spill the burning blood of trolls and orcs and skraelings. To flee would be cowardice. Was he to be a warrior? But then he remembered Brandt, with his stern eyes and command in his voice. And he imagined Mheren swarmed by clutching monstrous trolls, her face determined, her lithe, deadly swordstrokes keeping them at bay. He remembered her eyes, full of defiance and courage, and wondered what really lay behind them. He wasn't sure why, but he ran to join Mheren. Wyrding felt like a cold, silent hunk of metal in his hand.  
  
Their last glimpse of Brandt as they scaled the wall of the courtyard was the wizard standing in a circle of flames, surrounded by beastlike shadows, with the Inn of the Dancing Bear aflame behind him. 


	9. Poiniard's Tale Part Four

CHAPTER FOUR  
  
Mheren and Poiniard quickly made their way north, towards the city's main gate. Away from the beleaguered inn, and away from their friends. More than once, Mheren paused to look back, but each time Poiniard urged her onward. "Brandt said this is what we must do," he said, and each time, Mheren nodded and turned away. He thought he saw tears in her eyes, but it was dark and he could not be sure in the flickering torchlight. Perhaps it was only a trick of the light.  
  
Poiniard was not sure they were doing the right thing, either. He had no desire to face trolls again, and unlike Mheren, he felt no attachment to Harrow or anyone else back there at the Bear. Running away seemed the natural thing to do, made all the more easy since Brandt had ordered them to do just that. But Wyrding somehow gave him a confidence he'd never felt before, and that only added to the cowardice he couldn't help but feel. His frantic whispers, urging Mheren not to turn back, were meant as much for himself as for her.  
  
The weather was beginning to cool. A storm was coming. By the time they neared the gate, Mheren was herself again- firmly committed to her goal. "We must escape from here, quickly." She knelt and stuffed her cloak into her pack. There was no sound of remorse in her voice. "How much further is it?"  
  
Poiniard looked around. "Not far, I think, he said. "I don't often come to this part of the city. In fact, I've only used the north gate once before. The Square of the Gate should be up there, just around that corner."  
  
At last, they came to the city gates, and only to find them guarded. Four pikemen stood together near the gate, huddled about their watchfire, yet alert. "A bad omen," one of them said, looking up at the brewing storm.  
  
"Aye," said another, nodding. "The Elementals come out to play on such nights." With that, the guards all tightened their grip on their pikes, and a few drew circles over their chests, a gesture meant to ward off spirits.  
  
Mheren loosened her sword in its scabbard and looked over at Poiniard. From their vantage point, they were invisible to the guards. "We'll fight our way out if we must," she said, rising slowly from a crouch. "You unbar the gate, I will deal with-"  
  
She stopped in mid-sentence and looked again at the gate. Poiniard imagined he felt a faint tremor from Wyrding. Surely, it was the storm playing tricks on him. Then, he looked toward the gate, and saw what had caught Mheren's eye.  
  
A pale-skinned man emerged from an outbuilding near the gate, on the heels of a nervous-looking officer of the watch. At the sight of him, all of the guardsmen snapped to attention. Behind the pair, a trio of impossibly tall men emerged from the shadows. They were nearly giants, great hulks clad in voluminous black cloaks. The three took up positions behind the pale man, while the officer sweated and the four guardsmen shifted nervously.  
  
"Look sharp tonight, lads," said the officer. "No one in or out." The repetition of standing orders was meant to impress on his guardsmen the important nature of their unexpected visitor.  
  
"Who's that?" Poiniard asked Mheren.  
  
Mheren scowled. "His presense is no coincidence. We are not to be allowed out of Culhaven, it seems." The arrival of an officer, a noble and the three trolls didn't seem to daunt her in the slightest. She was determined to get through that gate.  
  
Poiniard had no idea who the man was, but there was little doubt in his mind what sort of creatures hid beneath those cloaks. "Mheren," he whispered. "There's a better way."  
  
She raised an eyebrow.  
  
"I know of some tunnels which lead out of the city. I have friends there who will help us." He didn't like the odds of trying to fight their way out through the gate.  
  
"What sort of friends?"  
  
"The Dark Lady will help us."  
  
"Who is she?"  
  
"The leader of my guild." Without looking back, he turned from the gate and led Mheren back into the city. Soon, they were in a maze of back alleys and dark streets.  
  
"This is nothing like the area along the Street of Scribes," Mheren said. All the doors were kept shut, the windows darkened. The streets were uneven and muddy.  
  
"When the coming storm breaks, the going will only get worse," Poiniard said, leaping nimbly over a puddle of murk. "At least the streets are empty."  
  
"This whole place smells of rot and garbage," Mheren said. "Why does it not surprise me that friends of yours would live in such a place?"  
  
Poiniard was glad her grim humor had returned. "These streets I know," he said. "I'm just glad to be away from those things at the gate."  
  
They continued on through the slums for a while, Poiniard leading and Mheren following. Suddenly, Poiniard halted. They had turned down a side street, and three men blocked their way. They were rangy and unkempt, holding clubs and bared daggars.  
  
"Well well," one said. "What 'ave we 'ere?"  
  
Poiniard heard the whisper of Mheren's sword clearing its scabbard. He put a restraining hand on her arm, and flashed a hand-sign at the thugs. Recognition dawned in their eyes, and one of them returned the countersign with a flick of his hand. The three man backed off. One tapped the brim of his hat apologetically.  
  
"Glad to see I get something for my guild tithe," Poiniard said, as they continued on. Mheren sheathed her sword and breathed a sigh of relief, but Poiniard was too intent on reading the street signs to notice.  
  
A few blocks further south and the neighborhood began to improve. The roads turned upward, leading towards a small hill near the middle of Culhaven. They passed under a lesser gate, but it was guarded only by a pair of bored swordsmen. A few of Mheren's coins gained them entrance to that quarter of the city known as the Heights.  
  
The streets were not deserted, but still few others were abroad. Those they passed were either drunken fops or heavily guarded merchants. A temple spire loomed nearby, silhouetted against the clouded moon.  
  
"Good thing the moon is full," Poiniard said. "Makes things a lot easier to see." Then, a cloud passed over the moon.  
  
"That's the last we'll see of her tonight," Mheren said. "Storm's coming."  
  
They halted before a gated compound. A wall surrounded the place, festooned with gargoyles and other ornate stonework. Two heavily armored men stood by the gate. "Private guardsmen," Poinaird said, indicating the black tunics the men wore.  
  
Mheren nodded. "Mercenaries. The Black Lions."  
  
Poiniard looked at her, surprised. "How do you know that?"  
  
She smiled. "It's on their tunics."  
  
He wondered whether she could really make out the symbol on their uniforms from so far away, but didn't press the issue.  
  
The sound of hooves on the cobblestones caused Mheren and Poiniard to withdraw deeper into the shadows. A carriage pulled up before the entrance, driven by a pair of well-dressed servants. One of them dismounted and held open the door while two ladies dressed in finery stepped out. The servant pulled a scroll from his belt and handed it to one of the Black Lions.  
  
One guardsman unfurled the scroll and read it while the other scowled at the servant and scanned the street. The hulking mercenaries grinned but stood aside to let the two ladies, already swaying from too much drink, enter into the palace.  
  
"Some kind of masquerade ball?" Mheren whispered.  
  
Poiniard shrugged. "I guess so. Anyway, they won't let us in here. We'll have to go around back."  
  
The servants entrance on the other side of the palace was much busier than the front entrance, with the staff coming and going, usually carrying bundles of food or drink. The two guards, who sat lazily atop a cask drinking ale, were much less imposing than the mercenaries at the front, but no less capable. They were clad in unadorned black tunics. To someone who didn't know better, the two men could have been kitchen staff lazing about. Yet even before they approached, the two guards spotted Mheren and Poiniard coming towards them.  
  
"These men are ours," Poiniard whispered. Mheren nodded.  
  
Poiniard stepped from the shadows. He knew they could see the sword at his belt, and he kept both his hands in plain sight. Mheren did the same, though a little more warily. The two guards made no sign they recognized Poiniard. They didn't even get up from their drinking, but their eyes were alert as they approached, and Poiniard knew they had hidden knives close at hand.  
  
He stopped a short distance from the two men, far enough away to make his presense clearly known, and yet near enough that they could see the surreptitious hand-signal he made with his fingers. One of the men sitting atop the cask returned the counter-sign, and waved them in. Poiniard and Mheren entered without a word.  
  
The kitchens were full of light and bustling with activity. A burly cook narrowed his eyes, and with a surreptitious glance sent one of his lads running off.  
  
"Where are we going?" Mheren whispered.  
  
"The kitchen staff are guild members," Poiniard told her, "but we need to find someone a little higher up."  
  
He kept a hand on her arm as he guided her through the servant's wing. The sounds of music and revelry could be heard from a nearby room, and a seemingly endless throng of butlers and serving maids came and went. At the end of a hallway, they caught a glimpse of a grand ballroom, decorated with banners and pennants and lined with torches. The great room was filled with guests, dining and dancing, everyone wearing a decorative mask. They paused before the archway.  
  
"Looks like all the finest folk of Culhaven are here," Poiniard grinned, eyeing the lavish display. He could only imagine the mountains of jewelry and the piles of gold carried by the wealthy visitors. "We're not dressed well enough," he warned. "We shouldn't linger here where people can see us. We stick out like sore thumbs."  
  
Mheren paused, regarding the ballroom. She grimaced at the sight of the ladies in their plumage. A beautiful woman, very well-dressed, with red hair and a revealing dark gown was making her way across the tiled floor. The woman wore jewels that sparkled with silver and amethyst in the light, and she moved with a haughty grace and a proud confidence. She was statuesque, almost breathtaking in her beauty. Her pale skin stood out in a stark contrast to her plunging dark dress. The woman paused before a table, laughing, speaking with her guests. Mheren caught just a glimpse of her, though, before Poiniard tugged at her and led her down a side passage, away from the ballroom.  
  
"This way," he said. They descended a narrow flight of stairs to a tunnel beneath the pantry.  
  
Mheren started when a young man appeared from the shadows without warning. He was dressed much like the men at the back entrance, in the unadorned livery of the place, but he openly wore a pair of ceremonial daggars at his belt. The man crossed his arms over his chest, blocking the way to the tunnel. He regarded Poiniard with mild disdain.  
  
"Tsk, tsk, Poiniard," he said, with an authoritative voice. "Dropping in uninvited like this."  
  
Poiniard tightened his grip on Mheren's arm. "Ey, Lithome," he said. "We've urgent business."  
  
The rogue Lithome narrowed his eyes. "The Dark Lady doesn't want anybody slipping out without her say-so. She wants to see you before you go, Poiniard. " He eyed Mheren with barely-concealed curiosity. "And your guest."  
  
*** 


	10. Poiniard's Tale Part Five

Without taking his eyes from Poiniard and Mheren, Lithome pressed a hidden catch in the wall, and a disguised section of the tunnel slid away, revealing a secret passage. Smiling politely, the rogue gestured towards it. "Our Lady awaits," he said. "I'll be right behind you."  
  
Mheren hestitated, so Poiniard led the way. This was an entrance to the Guild Hall, and he held no doubts they were being watched by hidden eyes. Trying to break out on their own would only raise every thief in the city against them. If they wanted the Dark Lady's help, the best way to get it would be by obeying Guild protocols.  
  
"You know," said Lithome, from behind them, "I've heard a few reports on you, Poiniard."  
  
"Heh," Poiniard chuckled. "Nothing bad, I hope."  
  
"Well, you pay your dues, at least. Grimsley and Blaylock tell me you've become quite the lock-picker."  
  
"We all get lucky, sometimes."  
  
"That we do," Lithome said. Mheren could almost feel him watching her from behind.  
  
They came to a torchlit room with other narrow tunnels branching off in various directions. "That's far enough," Lithome said. Three burly rogues stood there, watching for signs of trouble and alert for any signal from Lithome. For some reason, they appeared uneasy.  
  
In one of the walls was a door, made seemingly of gold, cunningly wrought, and set with dozens of smooth gemstones. They sparkled in the torchlight with every color of the rainbow. It had no handle, and there were dozens, perhaps scores of keyholes in it, randomly spaced. Poiniard gasped when he saw it.  
  
"So," chuckled Lithome. "You've heard the legend of the Door of Keys."  
  
"I have," answered Poiniard, "since I first joined the Guild." He went closer to examine the fabled door, yet not daring to touch it. "A door, in the heart of the thieves guild, yet in four hundred years, no one has ever been able to defeat more than four of it's locks."  
  
"Five," Lithome corrected. "But I'm still young yet."  
  
Mheren approached the door. "What's behind it?"  
  
Poiniard drew back his hand. "No one knows."  
  
"It dates back to the Magewars," Lithome said.  
  
"Wizards put it here?" Mheren asked.  
  
The rogue nodded. "The thing is veritably alive with magic. We've had wizards of our own look at it, over the years. They've managed to do little more than confirm what we already know about it. The thing is even more impervious to magic than it is to lockpicks. And we do know what's behind it. A vault. Big one. We've confirmed that with tappings and diggings. Waste of time. Whatever chamber it guards is shrouded in spells. The only way in is through this door."  
  
"But no one has any idea what's inside?"  
  
"Nay," Lithome answered. "It seems the last archwizards left it here just to torment us poor thieves. Come, we must not keep the Dark Lady waiting." He went over to a trunk in the corner and removed a pair of black silken hoods. "Now, we need to adhere to an age-old tradition. Nobody gets to see our little hideaway, so you'll both have to wear these."  
  
Mheren glanced at Lithome resentfully, and eyed his three ruffians up and down. "You're not going to touch my sword," she snarled. The guards stiffened.  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it," Lithome said. "You, at least, are a guest of the Dark Lady, and Poiniard is one of our own, so you'll be allowed to keep your swords. But you still need the blindfolds."  
  
"Put mine on first," Poiniard said.  
  
Lithome nodded, and placed the hood over his head, then did the same for Mheren. A rogue then took each of them by the shoulder and turned them around quickly several times. Disoriented, they were led down one of the branching passages. They made several turns, and there was no way Poiniard could have learned his way through that maze even if he'd been trying. The floors were uneven, and several times the blindfolded guests of the Dark Lady stumbled on a raised board, or a depression in the floor. But Lithome's compatriots kept their charges firmly by the arm, and soon they stopped. They heard a door click shut behind them, and Lithome removed their hoods.  
  
They were in a richly appointed subterranean audience hall. The chamber was long, smoky and dimly lit by torches along the walls. Antique gems twinkled in ornamental brass and gold settings on the walls. There hung some of the greatest trophies of Culhaven's guild of thieves- ornaments, tapestries, armor and relics. Ancient stone columns upheld the ceiling.  
  
Lithome led the way across the chamber. At the far end was a dais, on which sat a throne. A woman lounged there. Lithome stopped and bowed before the throne. "Your guests have arrived, my Lady," he said with a bow.  
  
The Dark Lady was a slim woman, clad all in black embroidered silk, even her soft boots and gloves. A veil covered her face, except for her eyes. She wore no open weapons or jewelry, but her dark eyes sparkled. "Thank you, Brother," she said, using the traditional term for a fellow thief. Lithome bowed a second time, and withdrew.  
  
"Hail, Poiniard, my brave filcher," the Lady continued. She recognized him as one of her own. Her piercing eyes lingered for a moment on his sword. "It is not often I get to speak with a mere Journeyman."  
  
"I am honored," Poinaird stammered, bowing as best as he was able. It was obvious the Dark Lady held little interest in him.  
  
"And you," she said, turning her dark eyes to Mheren. "Why do you come to me?"  
  
"We are pursued, my Lady," Mheren said, her voice and body language subtly different. She spoke deferentially, more like a courtier than a swordswoman. "We'd hoped you would help us out of the city."  
  
"Perhaps I can, my dear." The Dark Lady nodded and leaned back in her throne. Her eyes twinkled, like she was smiling beneath her veil. But they were the eyes of a huntress. "After all, it wouldn't be the first time." She tapped a gloved finger against the arm of her chair. "An interesting thing happened tonight, in another quarter of the city. An inn burned."  
  
Poiniard felt his heart sink, and Mheren simply nodded.  
  
"Some interesting travelers stay at the Dancing Bear," the Dark Lady continued. "A gnome, a dwarf, a large half-orc out of the wilds. Quite an odd, intriguing mix, wouldn't you say? There was also an elf, who no one could really get a good look at, and a man who looked suspiciously like one of those druids from the Middle Kingdoms."  
  
"Those were my companions, my Lady," Mheren said. She kept her voice level, as a lesser noblewoman addressing the greater, but Poiniard saw the concern in her eyes.  
  
The Dark Lady saw it too, and smiled again at the admission. "Now that I recall, there was a swordswoman there too, reportedly." The Dark Lady narrowed her eyes. "Tell me your name, girl."  
  
"My name is Mheren, m'Lady."  
  
The guild leader nodded. "Alas," she said, "the Inn of the Dancing Bear has burned to the ground. It will be morning before we can discern the fates of those involved. As soon as I learn more, I will inform you."  
  
"Thank you, M'Lady," said Mheren, her voice barely a whisper. "Can you help us?"  
  
"My chief rival has lost something, apparently very dear to him. He is scouring the city for these adventurers who stole from him." She shook her head. "Your friends have stirred up quite a hornet's nest tonight. My enemies are out for blood." She laughed. "I am glad it is not me they are hunting tonight."  
  
Poiniard's mind raced to grapple with what he was hearing. Mheren denied nothing the Dark Lady had said. Did that mean the trolls were not after him and Wyrding, but Mheren? What had she and Brandt stolen?  
  
"Freelancing is not something I tolerate," the Dark Lady said sternly. "But whatever these amateurs stole, it meant a great deal to my enemies. Poiniard was right to bring you to me. I am willing to overlook things, even help. Provided certain- concessions are made."  
  
Mheren looked up, and the two women eyed one another carefully for a long moment.  
  
"You came here seeking the tunnels," the guild leader said at last, "but I tell you the tunnels leading out of the city are not safe. My enemy has found a way into them. I'm going to send some of my own out to clear them."  
  
"I'll help!" Poiniard blurted out. He didn't know what had come over him.  
  
The Dark Lady smiled. "No, I'm sure the mighty Lithome can handle those duties quite capably. It would be best that you remain here, hidden and under my protection.  
  
"Thank you," Mheren said, adding a curtsy. "May the Four smile on your generosity."  
  
"But there is no reason you should not enjoy my hospitality, Mheren, and I would be remiss if I did not offer you every comfort. Our benefactor is holding a ball. It would please me if you'd attend. Enjoy the revelry. I'll see you are outfitted, provide you with an escort."  
  
Mheren seemed reluctant to accept. Poiniard guessed she would prefer to fight her way out through the tunnels, but something had passed between the two women that he couldn't put his finger on. Both of them held some secret.  
  
The Dark Lady raised a hand, and the curtains behind the dais stirred. A man entered.  
  
Poiniard nearly choked when he saw who it was. Every thief in the Guild knew the Dark Lady had three lieutenants she trusted, and Lithome, who served as something of a captain of the guards, was the least of them.  
  
"Megwen," the Dark Lady said, introducing the newcomer, "How fortunate you arrived when you did."  
  
It was the first time Poiniard had seen Megwen, and the man reminded him of a younger version of Bhenyamin, although he bore little physical resemblance to the murdered street wizard. It was something in his mannerisms, a touch of magic, or perhaps a barely-concealed hint of ambition or madness. Poiniard shivered, and Wyrding suddenly felt very heavy at his side.  
  
"We have a guest," the Dark Lady said from behind her veil. "It would please me if you would escort the Lady Mheren to the ball."  
  
"It would please me greatly, mistress," Megwen said. He smiled and took Mheren by the arm.  
  
Mheren kept all expression from her face. Poiniard wondered what she thought of the man. Megwen appeared confident and well-dressed. He wore around his neck the silver medallion of the College of Wizards. That probably meant he had been trained and groomed by Nostinaard, the one called the Old Spider, the lord and master of every wizard in the city. Few people felt comfortable around magic-users, even in Culhaven, where practicing arcane magic was not forbidden. But Mheren was unusual. Perhaps her relationship with Brandt had tempered the natural suspicions.  
  
"Poiniard, this should be a most pleasant opportunity for you, too." 


	11. Poiniard's Tale Part Six

"Poiniard, this should be a most pleasant opportunity for you, too."  
  
A woman emerged from behind the same curtain. She wore a floor-length red dress, decorated with gold embroidery and yellow ruffles. It was close- fitting around her narrow waist, and flared out in a bustle below her hips. Her hair, a deep auburn almost as red as the fabric of the dress, was ornately pinned behind her head. She took Poiniard by the arm, giving him a cold smile.  
  
This was Shespi, the Dark Lady's most trusted confidante, and believed by many to be the most daring and skilled thief in the Guild. The ruthless manner in which she carried out the Dark Lady's commands had made her the most feared of the three lieutenants. Tales spread discreetly throughout the guild linked her to the disappearance of several unfortunate thieves who had displeased the Dark Lady in the past. Other rumors, barely whispered, hinted at the close relationship between the Dark Lady and her red-haired confidante. Some claimed Shespi was being groomed to one day succeed the Dark Lady. Being so close to the second-most feared thief in Culhaven made Poiniard's palms sweat.  
  
"Fear not," the Dark Lady said from behind her veil. "You are well-guarded here. Tonight, at least, you shall remain as my guests. Then, in the morning, we will make arrangements to smuggle you both out of the city."  
  
They were again blindfolded and taken back up to the manor, where Mheren and Poiniard were taken to separate but adjoining rooms. They were given nice clothes while their gear was stowed safely away.  
  
Poiniard was nervous in the tunic and leggings they loaned him, probably the most expensive clothes he'd ever worn in his life. He didn't look forward to being around so many lords and ladies. He was a commoner, and wouldn't know how to act. Most unnerving of all was being separated from Wyrding, but the liveried grooms assured him it would remain quite safe in an armoir along one wall. He looked to the doorway leading to the next room, where Mheren was probably being similiarly treated. He was sure the swordswoman would be equally nervous about these same fears, if not moreso. She had the added strain of having left her friends behind, still in danger.  
  
***  
  
Poiniard flinched when he stepped on Shepsi's toes- for the second time. "Sorry, I don't know how to dance. Not like this, anyway."  
  
"Just hold onto my arms and watch what the others do," she said. "And don't step on my feet again." The musicians increased the tempo of their music, and the dance quickened. "I didn't know how, either, when I first joined. But I learned. You should, too, if you ever want to pull yourself out of the gutter and rise above a common cutpurse."  
  
Poiniard nodded and tried to keep up. They both looked across the room, to where Mheren and the wizard were dancing. Poiniard couldn't help but notice how close Megwen seemed to be holding his dancing partner. He wondered if that was how the dance was supposed to be done, but he dared not press himself any closer to the voluptuous Shespi- for any number of reasons.  
  
"There really is something noble about that girl," Shespi said, still watching Mheren. "She has certainly surprised me by fitting in so well in a courtly setting."  
  
Poiniard couldn't deny that.  
  
"Tell me, Poiniard. What else do you know about this swordswoman? The Dark Lady seemed most intrigued by her, and now I can see why," she said. "It wouldn't surprise me if she asks her to delay her departure."  
  
"I don't think Mheren would do that," Poiniard blurted.  
  
Shespi stared at him. "Few people can deny the Dark Lady. She can be very persuasive."  
  
***  
  
Mheren felt uncomfortably close to Megwen as he drew her in for the dance. It wasn't that his face was uncomely or his breath was foul- nothing about him was. Nor was his body repulsive to her- in fact, it was the exact opposite. Yet being in the arms of the wizard still made her shiver. The man was a skilled courtier, though. There was no denying that.  
  
He swept her along effortlessly as they whirled about the dance floor of the great hall. The minstrels played a dhu-nathir, an ancient elven dance brought north long ago from the deserts of the Akraine, popularized by Culian merchants who sought to emulate the elven merchant-princes of the wealthy south. The tune the minstrels played was the same one Mheren had heard before. It reminded her of elves, sad and dreaming under a desert moon, longing for their home. But the words had changed. The Dark Lady's bard sang not of faraway Amaranth of the elves, but of things closer to home, things cherished by men in the Culian cities. She wondered if the musicians really knew of the sadness behind their song.  
  
"The words don't quite fit the music, do they?" Megwen asked her.  
  
"No, sir, they don't."  
  
The dark-eyed mage smiled. "Please, Mheren, call me Megwen. Let's at least try to make the best of this."  
  
"Sorry- Megwen," she said, sounding like a nervous maiden on her bridesday. "I will try."  
  
Megwen ran his eyes down her form as he twirled his partner in time with the dance. "You're a wonderful dancer, Mheren. If I didn't know better, I'd say you were raised in one of the courts of the Middle Kingdoms."  
  
She laughed sweetly. "Oh no, dear sir, you have it all wrong. You might as well say that I hail from the elven palaces of Lhen-dother." She added an uncommon flourish to her turn, causing the wizard to miss a step. Lhen- dother was only a legend, and they both knew it.  
  
Megwen recovered quickly. "So that's how it's to be, is it? I suppose you're the long-lost daughter of the Forest King, then." He smiled at her evasiveness. "A wood nymph in disguise, come to dally among the mortals?" His eyes blazed for a moment.  
  
Not with lust, she thought, but with mirth and a newfound respect. Everyone in Culhaven was a predator, of one sort of another, and this man- a wizard and a thief- was doubly so. She realized then that whatever interest for her personally may have sparked in him, everything about Megwen was professional. His mirth was oriented towards but one goal- finding out about Mheren's secrets and her companions. He looked like he was going to enjoy the challenge.  
  
***  
  
In the midst of their dance, a thief entered the room, unobtrusively at first. But when the nobles and ladies took notice, they drew away in distaste. He was clad in leather armor rather than silks and finery, and a shortsword hung in a battered sheath at his side. He approached Shespi. He smelled of sweat and blood. Poiniard saw scratches on him, and grime on his boots.  
  
"Forgive me, Shes," he said, with urgency in his voice.  
  
Poiniard guessed that this was another senior thief, probably one of Lithome's crew with news of the fighting in the tunnels. From the way he addressed Shespi, and because of his appearance, Poiniard knew the man must be fairly high ranking. His very presense at the banquet meant he must have brought news of some importance.  
  
Shespi leaned forward and the man whispered into her ear. Her expression darkened. She dismissed the man and rose. Down the table, Megwen saw this and got to his feet as well. "Come with me, Poiniard," she said, gesturing also to Mheren and Megwen. "Urgent guild business requires we take out leave early. I'll show you and our guest back to your quarters."  
  
They were quickly ushered back to the same apartments where they'd been dressed. As soon as Shespi left, Poiniard tried the door and found it locked. Their rooms were adjoining, and Poiniard was glad when Mheren entered.  
  
"They've locked me in, Poiniard," she said. "What about your door?"  
  
"It's locked, too."  
  
"Seems they don't want us leaving."  
  
"I think there's been some trouble in the tunnels."  
  
"My guess as well," Mheren said. "Your friends have been kind to us so far, but I don't like being locked in a room, even ones as nice as these. I'm leaving, and I'm leaving now." She went over to the armoire and began rummaging through it. She pulled out their swordbelts and tossed Wyrding to Poiniard. "Our armor isn't here, nor is the rest of our gear, but at least they left us our weapons."  
  
"Guild code," Poiniard explained, belting Wyrding around his waist. "They wouldn't leave a thief unable to defend himself."  
  
Mheren, too, donned her weapon belt. Monarchal looked out of place at her side, dressed as she was in a sheer gown. Poiniard couldn't help but notice again how beautiful she was, in a dress which left little to the imagination. She was standing over a heavy trunk.  
  
"Help me lift this, Poin," she asked. "We're going to batter the door down and get out of here."  
  
"That'll make too much noise," he said. "Let me try something else, first."  
  
"You mean pick the locks?" Mheren eyed him dubiously. "Did they leave your thieves tools?"  
  
"No, they kept my picks along with my old clothes. But what kind of thief would I be if I didn't keep a few secrets up my sleeve for emergencies?" From his tunic, he removed a tiny sliver of metal, the most basic of implements, but always useful in a pinch. "Guild Rule number thirty-four," he said, kneeling down and setting to work on the lock. "Always carry a spare pick."  
  
She beamed at him. "Never know when you might get caught and need to escape?"  
  
"Exactly." But soon Poiniard realized that the lock on the door was not about to yield to his efforts. With a snap, his pick broke off in the lock. "By the Frozen Hells," he cursed.  
  
"A nice attempt, anyway," Mheren said. "Let's get the trunk."  
  
"Wait," Poiniard said. He stood and drew Wyrding from its sheath, while Mheren looked on, puzzled. He set the tip of the sword precisely into the keyhole. The instant the blade touched the lock, there was a tiny click. Gingerly, Poiniard swung the door open. 


	12. Poiniard's Tale Part Seven

Poiniard and Mheren cautiously stepped out into the hallway.  
  
Mheren ruffled the skirts of her borrowed dress. "I wish we had our armor and adventuring gear, instead of this useless finery."  
  
"I wish I had those things, too," Poiniard said. "And my bag of gold."  
  
"At least we have our swords." Mheren drew Monarchal from its sheath, and the slender blade glittered. "The hallway's clear. Let's get out of here. Which way do we go?"  
  
"Honestly, I don't have any better idea than you do about the layout of this place. We're on the second floor of the mansion. The Guild Halls are all in the cellars, and we were never allowed up here."  
  
"Well, come on, then," Mheren said. "Let's find our own way out."  
  
They made their way down a flight of stairs to the main floor, where everything seemed to be in chaos. From the direction of the Great Hall, Mheren and Poiniard could hear screams, and the clash of swords.  
  
"It smells like smoke," Poiniard said. "Whoever is attacking the mansion has entered the Great Hall. The front gate must be blocked."  
  
Servants and guests alike ran past them, all in a mad rush to find another exit- a door, a window, any way to escape the melee in the ballroom and the courtyard. Most of those who forced their way past Mheren and Poiniard seemed quite flustered, even terrified. Some bore wounds or signs of fighting.  
  
A man bumped into Mheren. His face was pale. His formal leggings were ripped, and his expensive silk tunic was in tatters, and splashed with blood. He held a ceremonial rapier in front of him, but the man couldn't hold it steady, his hands were shaking so badly.  
  
Mheren grabbed the man by his collar. "What's happening back there?"  
  
"The Great Hall," he stammered. "They're attacking!"  
  
"Who's attacking?"  
  
The man blinked, and shook his head. "Demons! It's a slaughterhouse- you've got to get out- I've got to get out!" He pulled himself from Mheren's grasp and ran off down the hallway.  
  
"Demons?" Poiniard asked.  
  
"My guess is trolls," Mheren said. "I'd like to find out what really is going on here, but if they've set fire to the place, we don't want to be here."  
  
"This will be the second time tonight we've fled a building on fire."  
  
Mheren nodded grimly. "Come on, let's see if we can find our way down to your Guild Halls. Maybe we can still find those tunnels you mentioned."  
  
"All right," Poiniard said. "I think I know where we are now." He took a last look down the hallway, where he thought he caught a glimpse of the Great Hall. It was black with smoke, and lit with an orange glow. Poiniard did not share Mheren's curiosity to see who was attacking, but it still took all his willpower to turn away from the horrific scene. It was almost as if Wyrding was calling out to him, urging him to go towards the fight. He turned and led Mheren to the hidden door which led to the Guild Halls. 


	13. Poiniard's Tale Part Eight

The door at the other end of the hallway splintered, then broke inward with a crash. A pair of Black Lions tumbled into view, scrambling over one another to get back on their feet. Mheren and Poiniard glanced at each other, wondering what foe the Dark Lady's guardsmen faced. They soon had their answer. A troll lumbered into the doorway and stood snarling at its two mail-clad opponents. In seconds, the two soldiers were dead, and the troll turned to face Mheren and Poiniard.  
  
Suddenly, Poiniard felt Wyrding almost spring into his hand. He held the glittering blade before him, could almost feel it pulsing with rage. It was like the fight in the alleyway all over again. His vision seemed hazy somehow. The hallway dimmed to his vision, and the vast, dark bulk of the troll seemed to fade and blur- all except for the thing's eyes. Those blazed like a pair of fiery coals, and Poiniard couldn't take his eyes from them. He knew Mheren was beside him, moving towards the troll like a panther, but she, too, was indistinct- only Monarchal was clearly visible, gleaming like a white-hot iron.  
  
Poiniard followed her movements, closing with the troll. He knew he should flee, and for the briefest moment wondered how it was he could move at all. He should have been paralyzed with fear, not charging with the movements of a skilled warrior.  
  
Monarchal leapt out and down, a white blur before his eyes, and Poiniard swung Wyrding in a sure arc which somehow echoed that of Mheren's blade. The two Swordbearers moved almost in unison, as if the blades themselves were orchestrating the battle.  
  
The troll growled, and for a moment Poiniard caught a glimpse of a fanged maw leaping at his face, but Wyrding was there to meet it. The troll's roar of fury turned to a howl of anger and pain as Wyrding bit through the scales and bone of the monster's head. Monarchal swept up again, severing a huge, clawed arm. In a few more moments, the dismembered troll lay inert on the floor, body parts still twitching in a spreading pool of stinking troll- blood. Poiniard stepped back, afraid to touch the viscous stuff.  
  
"Are you all right?" Mheren asked. She, too, was breathing heavily.  
  
"Heh, I can hardly believe it, but I guess I am." His vision was suddenly clear, and he noticed that Mheren was smiling at him. With Monarchal in her hand, the magical blade dripping with green ichor, she managed to look the part of an elven warrior-maiden of old, even though she was clad in an immodest gown. Was that pride and respect in her eyes? Poiniard looked away, gesturing at the motionless body of the troll with his sword. "What about the curse? Is that thing going to stay dead?"  
  
"Nothing we can do about it now," answered Mheren. "We'd better go while we've got the chance."

* * *

The Dark Lady leaned against the wooden table. The Hall of Records, the most secure chamber in the guild network, was dim and dark, lit only by a single bullseye lantern. She knew things were going badly, and turned to her two lieutenants. "Well, Megwen, what have you learned?"  
  
"The attackers are indeed your rival, the one they call Oracus..."  
  
Shespi, still clad in her red dress, though her auburn hair was let down, scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You needed magic to tell you that?"  
  
"Let him speak," the Dark Lady said, holding up a black-gloved hand.  
  
The wizard swallowed, struggling to maintain his composure. "My divinations have also revealed they are after more than just the destruction of the guild. They seek something, a magical artifact of some antiquity."  
  
The Dark Lady frowned, and focused her brown eyes on the mage. "An artifact? Of what sort?"  
  
"The visions were unclear, M'Lady," he apologized, spreading his hands. "Oracus has allied himself with a sorcerer of some power, who shrouds much of what they do. Still, my scrying was able to penetrate his wards to learn at least the outward appearance of this thing. They seek a pendant."  
  
"Hrm, it must be that swordswoman Poiniard was with." The Dark Lady nodded to Megwen to continue. "What else?"  
  
"This sorcerer has trolls at his command, my Lady. They've had little trouble dealing with our mercenaries, and I don't see how the rogues of the guild will fare any better."  
  
"Don't underestimate my thieves, Megwen. A pity about the Black Lions, though. All that gold, wasted. But it takes magic to defeat magic. You must go and face this sorcerer."  
  
The handsome wizard paled, and fingered the silver amulet at his neck for a moment. "As you wish, M'Lady. I have sworn to serve you, and I must fulfill my compact." He turned and quickly left the room.  
  
Shespi reached under the table and drew out a weapon belt that was hidden there. "You know you've just sent him to his death," she said, buckling the dagger around her waist.  
  
The Dark Lady was silent for a moment. "I know. Just like I have doomed Lithome and all my rogues, but it has to be done. Every moment they buy is worth a life."  
  
"Those are moments dearly bought, Lhora."  
  
The Dark Lady shrugged. "Megwen is College-trained. Perhaps he will surprise us."  
  
"He is a diviner, not a sorcerer," Shespi said, loosening her dagger in its sheath.  
  
The Dark Lady chuckled. "So, do you still want to be Guildmistress after me, Shes? It's not as easy as you thought."  
  
"Yes, M'Lady, I still do. I would count it an honor to be your successor. But there is still so much more you haven't yet taught me. I hope that day is still far off."  
  
The Dark Lady laughed. "So do I. Don't worry, that day is not yet come. We'll come out of this, you and I, though everything I've built here may soon lie in ruins. I still have a few tricks left, and rest assured, I'll have my revenge for this."  
  
"Shall we go to the secret tunnel, then?" Shespi turned towards the door, but halted when her mistress did not move to follow her.  
  
"Not you, Shespi. I have one last little task for you. A very special task." 


	14. Poiniard's Tale Part Nine

"Which way do we go now, Poiniard?"  
  
The young rogue looked up and down the corridor, and stifled a shrug. He didn't really know where in the Guild Halls they were- he was not even a full Journeyman, yet. But neither did he want to let Mheren down. She had saved his life in the fight with the troll- and that wasn't the first time. He didn't want to let her down. "This way," he said, indicating the passageway to the left.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
"Sure, I'm sure. I've been through here many a time. Come on."  
  
Mheren still held Monarchal in her hand. She looked at him dubiously and said nothing, but followed behind as Poiniard led the way. They could hear pounding footsteps elsewhere in the subterranean compound, but the corridor ahead appeared empty- until a figure stepped into view ahead of them.  
  
"Well, well," Grimsley said. "If it ain't my old pal, Poiniard."  
  
Mheren narrowed her eyes warily, but Poiniard breathed a sigh of relief. "Grim," he said, "am I glad to see you." He started to move past Grimsley.  
  
Grimsley held a dagger in his fist, and refused to move aside.  
  
"Huh?" Poiniard asked.  
  
"Not so fast, Poin, old chum," Grimsley said, his eyes dark. "Blaylock an' I want our share of the gold back."  
  
Poiniard blinked. "The whole guild is about to go down, and there's a troll behind us-"  
  
"Feh, all tha more reason we needs our share. We know you snagged the loot."  
  
"I don't have it! We left it upstairs, when we-"  
  
"Nice sword you've got there, too, Poin," Grimsley said.  
  
Poiniard narrowed his eyes. "You have a right to a third of the gold, Grimsley, and I'd give it to you if I could. But this sword- he's mine."  
  
"We don't have time for this," Mheren said.  
  
Grimsley raised his dagger, slightly, and seemed to notice Mheren for the first time. He licked his lips as his eyes lingered upon her. "And who is this beautiful lady?" Grimsley asked with an evil chuckle.  
  
"She is none of your concern, Grim." Poiniard remained cautious. Though he and Mheren were both armed with longswords, they were unarmored. Grimsley wore his dark grey thieving leathers. Grimsley could be notoriously quick with a dagger, and Poiniard knew the man was clever. "Where's your partner? I don't think I've ever seen you and Blaylock apart."  
  
Grimsley merely smiled, and suddenly Poiniard fell to the ground. His head felt like it had been split open. He struggled to his feet, but Blaylock pushed him back with a kick.  
  
"Didn't even see me coming," Blaylock laughed at his companion. "Poiniard, you never were much good at spotting lurkers." He slapped his sturdy black club into the palm of his hand. "You'll stay down, if ya know what's good for ya." Poiniard struggled, but was unable to rise. Wyrding was like a lead weight in his hand.  
  
The two thieves turned menacingly towards Mheren, madness in their eyes. "She's a pretty one," Grimsley said. "Maybe we can find a place for her in the guild."  
  
"You have no idea who you are dealing with, Mheren said.  
  
Their laughs died on their lips as Mheren struck. She wielded Monarchal two- handed, and to Poiniard's blurred vision, the slim warrioress seemed to move as if by magic. One instant she was being menaced by the two treacherous footpads, the next she stood behind them, her sword covered with blood. Grimsley clutched his stomach in disbelief and slumped to the floor as blood and organs spilled through his fingers. Blaylock whirled and tried to strike Mheren a blow with his club, but she was quicker than thought. His hand was severed at the wrist before he could even feel it, and in the space of a heartbeat, Blaylock too was dead, with Monarchal's point in his heart.  
  
Mheren quickly freed her sword and went to Poiniard's side. He groaned.  
  
"Thanks," Poiniard said weakly, wiping blood from his face. "He came out of the shadows, I should have-"  
  
"Quiet," Mheren said, assessing his wounds. "It's not bad, but a knock on the head is still a knock on the head." She frowned, and began tearing wide strips from the hem of her floor-length dress. "I wish I had a proper bandage, Poin, but fortunately it's not bleeding too badly. Now, lay still."  
  
Poiniard lay back while Mheren tended his wounds. Slowly, the world stopped spinning, and he was able to focus on her face while she knelt over him. "I thought those two were my friends."  
  
"So much for honor among thieves." Mheren stood, and dusted off her hands. The strips she had torn to use as bandages had shortened her dress considerably. The fabulously expensive gown now hung barely to her knees.  
  
Poiniard turned his head to look at the corpses of Grimsley and Blaylock. "I should have seen that coming, I guess."  
  
Mheren was about to answer, when another voice came from over her shoulder. "Yes, you should have."  
  
Mheren whirled at the voice, Monarchal ready in her hand. Poiniard managed to struggle to his knees. They both gasped. "Lady Shespi!"  
  
The Dark Lady's lieutenant closed a secret door behind her and stepped distastefully over the bodies of Grimsley and Blaylock. She smiled, and offered a slim hand to Poiniard. "On your feet," she said. "Come with me, and I will show you the way out."  
  
Poiniard found himself staring into Shespi's brown eyes, so different from Mheren's blue ones. But he accepted her hand and managed to get to his feet. A bit unsteady, he nearly fell, until the red-haired woman caught his arm.  
  
"Careful, Poiniard," she said, eyeing the bandage on his head. "Lean on me for a moment. We're not in THAT big of a hurry."  
  
Mheren narrowed her eyes. "You're going to help us escape?"  
  
Shespi did not smile, but she maintained her gentle hold on Poiniard's arm, holding him up. "I am, and I know the ways of these halls better than any save one. And I've brought your gear, it's over there." She pointed towards a pair of familiar backpacks which lay against the wall. "What have you got in that thing, anyway? It's terribly heavy."  
  
Mheren sheathed her sword and went to pick up the packs.  
  
"A bag of gold," Poiniard muttered, finally able to stand on his own.  
  
"Ah," Shespi said, nodding. "That explains the little altercation with Grimsley and Blaylock here." Seeing Mheren's frown, she held up a hand. "I would have intervened, but by the time I got the secret door unlatched, you had things well in hand, Lady Mheren. Don't fret- those two were bound to meet their demise sooner than later." She turned back to Poiniard. "You really should choose your mentors with better care."  
  
"I'll try, M'Lady," was the only thing he could think to say.  
  
Her soft laugh was like music, and she smiled. "You can just call me Shespi now," she said, putting a hand lightly on his shoulder.  
  
"We need to get moving," Mheren said, scowling as she began rummaging through her pack. "I just need a moment to don my armor."  
  
"No time for that," Shespi said, leaving Poiniard's side and going over to the packs. She picked up Poiniard's and handed it to him. "The trolls have found their way into the lower halls. We need to flee, but every moment counts- they could be here any moment. Just bring your gear- you can change into it later.  
  
Mheren looked dubious, but when she saw that Poiniard had already shouldered his pack and was ready to follow the redhead, she relented. "I'm going to look rather silly wearing a backpack with this dress on," she said with a wry smile.  
  
"Nonsense," Shespi said. "With a figure like yours, no one's going to notice what's on your back." She smiled at the tattered hem of Mheren's gown. "But you really should find a new tailor."  
  
Mheren put a hand on her sword hilt and eyed the other woman cautiously. "Lead on, then. You go first."  
  
Shespi took a few steps back down the corridor, and stopped before a narrow doorway. "One thing before we go," she said.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"This is the guild storehouse," Shespi explained, pulling a small key from the shadows of her bodice. Fitting it in the lock, she turned the key, and pushed open the door. "Poin, you and Mheren stand guard. And one of you give me your pack- I've got to get a few things before we leave."  
  
Mheren handed the other woman her pack, and watched as Shespi scooped handfulls of cut gems and gold coins from a strongbox.  
  
"Good idea," Poiniard said.  
  
"Just keep an eye out," Shespi called out over her shoulder.  
  
Mheren turned, suddenly. A familiar, handsome rogue appeared out of the shadows, with a sinister-looking crew of footpads behind him.  
  
"I should have known I'd find you here, Shespi, robbing the treasury." Lithome was not nearly so handsome as he'd been the last time Mheren had seen him. The Dark Lady's lieutenant was wounded and haggard from his fights in the tunnels.  
  
"Robbing the robbers, you mean," Shespi said, taking up Mheren's pack and closing the door behind her. "Look, Lithome, the Dark Lady is missing- do you know what that means? It means this hall is doomed. At least help me salvage what I can, and we can rebuild elsewhere."  
  
Lithome looked as if he was about to laugh. "I have a half dozen bravos at my back. How about you give it all to me, and I let you go on your way?"  
  
Shespi glared at him, while Mheren and Poiniard drew their swords. 


	15. Poiniard's Tale Part Ten

Before Lithome's men could make good on their threat, the empty corridor behind them suddenly collapsed. Out of the dust strode a massive troll, its face shrouded by the hood of its great black cloak. The master thief spun on his heels and sent a dagger spinning across the room at the hulking beast. The jeweled knife bit into the scaly hide of the giant troll, but the monster paid it no more heed than a man would an annoying gnat.  
  
"Don't just stand there," Lithome hissed at his men, "kill it!"  
  
The six junior guild thieves obeyed Lithome's orders without hesitation, a testament to his prestige, if not his judgement. In mere moments, the troll ripped each of them to shreds. Enraged, Lithome leapt at the inhuman beast which had dismembered his bodyguards. The handsome thief managed to score a pair of hits with his rapier, but the troll answered with a vicious backhand slash of its claws. Lithome's abdomen was ripped open at the waist, and he slumped to the floor without another word.  
  
The entire hall was splattered with the blood of Lithome and his men. The troll stepped towards the three who yet lived. It raised one stony fist in menace, clutching a huge spiked club. Shespi cried out in horror. But Mheren and Poiniard raised their swords.  
  
"Aia ven guintui," Mheren cried, as she moved to the attack, Monarchal a humming blur in her hand.  
  
Poiniard scowled. He could have sworn he'd just heard a voice telling him that Mheren's words meant 'back beyond the Veil.' But that would be crazy. He shrugged it off, thinking the stress and fear were overcoming his senses. But then he realized that Wyrding was in his hand, and that Mheren was bravely fighting a troll by herself. Quite foolishly, he charged to her aid.  
  
With a sickening thunk, the troll hit the floor, dead. Poiniard looked across the thing's body, and saw Mheren standing there, sword in hand. Her chest was heaving from the exertion of battle, and her sheer gown was soaked with sweat and dust. It had a few new rips in it.  
  
"We'll have to find another way out, and quickly," Mheren said, tugging up the shoulder strap of her gown. "Lady Shespi, can you get us down to the catacombs?  
  
Shespi was pale and badly shaken by the carnage, but she managed to nod. She pointed down the hallway, past the ruined stones and the corpses of men and troll. "That way," she whispered. "Past the Unopenable Doors."  
  
Mheren nodded, and led the way. Poiniard followed behind, supporting the dazed Lady Shespi, and carrying his heavy pack. He decided not to sheathe Wyrding, though. The cold steel of his sword's hilt gave him the strength to walk to the ancient rune-covered doors. Mheren looked back, wondering why he had stopped.  
  
"Hey, what about that?" Poiniard asked, setting down his pack and looking at the doors to the legendary treasure trove.  
  
"You can't be serious," Shespi said.  
  
"If the Guild is about to fall, we need to at least save its treasures- you said so yourself."  
  
"We don't have time for this," Shespi said, genuine fear in her eyes. "No one can open those doors."  
  
Mheren smiled. "Poiniard can."  
  
Poiniard grinned at the swordswoman. "You don't mind if I have a go?"  
  
Poiniard held Wyrding with a steady two-handed grip. Facing the great doors, he wondered at the wisdom of his decision. The Doors Which Could Not Be Opened dated back to the time of the Great Kingdom, when battling wizards had rended the land. Perhaps such things were better left alone. But the glyphs on the portal seemed to glimmer and twist before his sight. The young thief glanced at his sword, wondering if he could rely on Wyrding. He chose one of the locks on the rune-covered doors and shrugged. "Well, if I fail, I won't be the first."  
  
The lock sprang open at the touch of the steel point. Behind him, Shespi gasped. Poiniard grinned, and touched Wyrding to another lock, and another. Soon, they had all sprung open. He turned and beamed at Mheren. "I did it!"  
  
Mheren nodded. "Yes, but we don't have much time."  
  
Poiniard turned back to the doors. Shespi came up beside him. She was breathing heavily, and gingerly touched a fingertip to the magical door. "Well, aren't you going to open it?"  
  
The great doors swung open silently with but the slightest touch. Shespi eagerly brushed past Poiniard in her haste to enter the mysterious chamber. Even Mheren was interested to see what lay within.  
  
"It's nothing but an empty vault!" Poiniard exclaimed.  
  
"Leave it to wizards to pull a hoax like this," Shespi muttered.  
  
"Wait," Mheren said, pointing. "Look!"  
  
In the center of the chamber, a small object was floating in midair. The three adventurers stepped cautiously into the vault, and stood around the thing. It appeared to be a small grey stone.  
  
Shespi reached out a hand, but Mheren cut her off. "I'll take this. It's probably an Elfstone."  
  
Shespi's eyes widened. "One of the magic gems they fought over in the Magewars?"  
  
"It looks dormant," Mheren said, "but with wizardry, you can't rely on appearances." She was about to tuck the stone into her pouch, then realized she wasn't wearing her usual equipment. Frowning, Mheren tucked the ancient artifact into the bodice of her dress. "Check around for anything else, then we have to go."  
  
========================================================================  
  
"That is the entrance to the catacombs," Shespi said.  
  
"That steel grate?" Poiniard asked, scratching his head.  
  
Shespi frowned. "You're getting awfully pretentious, Journeyman Poiniard. Were you expecting a red carpet?"  
  
"Open it, Poin," Mheren said. "We're wasting time."  
  
Lifting the hatch revealed an ominous stone shaft descending straight down into the gloom. A ladder of iron rungs set into the stonework seemed the only way down. A horrible stench assailed them from below.  
  
"Foul things lurk in these sewers," Shespi said. "No thief has gone down here in years, not since Feldrick Fivecoins went down there and never returned. The ways are treacherous, the passageways like a maze. There are said to be hidden traps and secret doors, too, so we'll have to be careful."  
  
"But the trolls won't be able to track us down there," Mheren said.  
  
"I wonder why," Poiniard said, grimacing at the foul smell. 


	16. Poiniard's Tale Part Eleven

The sorcerer nudged the smoking corpse of Megwen with his boot. Noticing a glint of silver, he knelt beside the body and reached out with a gloved hand. With a sharp tug, the black-robed sorcerer pulled Megwen's silver medallion from his neck and examined it briefly. The pendant still carried enchantments, and might yet be of some value. He tucked it into his pocket before standing. With a flick of his finger, the sorcerer beckoned to three of his largest trolls, who stood guard at his back, and followed him whenever he went abroad. They crossed the ruined remains of the Great Hall.  
  
Oracus the merchant turned to see his erstwhile ally. The half-orc's face darkened into a scowl at the sight of the three, hulking monsters. "Wizard, where have you been?"  
  
"You forget your place, Oracus," hissed the sorcerer. Behind him, the three trolls snarled menacingly.  
  
The half-orc merchant paled, but quickly regained his composure. He, too, had swords at his back, but unlike the foreign sorcerer, Oracus' men were mere flesh and blood. "Yes, Lord Morkawn," he said. "You're right. You did a fine job on killing the Dark Lady's wizard pet there. Without your help, it might have taken my men a few minutes longer."  
  
"Without my spells and my trolls," Morkawn said, "your thugs would never have made it through the front gates. But in answer to your question, I have been searching the lower halls."  
  
"Bah," Oracus snapped. "My men have already combed the manor from top to bottom. Including the guild halls underneath. Perhaps you forget, I was once a member here."  
  
"Still, I felt it wise to conduct my own search, using my own...methods."  
  
"And did you find what you were looking for?"  
  
Lord Morkawn was silent for a moment, struggling to contain his anger. "No," he hissed at last. "That which I seek is no longer on the grounds."  
  
"Well, it must have gone out through the tunnels. We've killed most of the defenders. Those who are still alive have agreed to join my guild- since their old one no longer exists. But there's no doubt about it, now. The Dark Lady has somehow managed to escape- and she's probably got your-"  
  
Morkawn raised a hand in warning.  
  
"Trinket," Oracus said. "But I wouldn't worry, my lord. I know right where those tunnels come out- outside the city walls- and I've got some of my lads there, guarding the place. When the survivors finally show themselves, we'll be waiting."  
  
"Have you sent men into the tunnels after them?"  
  
The half-orc fidgeted. "No, can't spare 'em, but I do have the tunnel entrance watched, now."  
  
The black-cloaked wizard thought for a moment. "Perhaps there is something I can do, to flush out our quarry a little faster."  
  
Oracus raised an eyebrow. "I don't think those trolls of yours will be much use in the sewers. The passageways are said to be narrow."  
  
"It was not trolls I had in mind."  
  
"Some lads of your own, perhaps? Foreign fighters might go, but if it's some local toughs you've hired on the side, I doubt it. No Culharvener in his right mind would go down in those tunnels."  
  
"You might be content to wait for your prize," Morkawn snarled, "but I am not. I have waited far too long already. I will not risk everything because you humans are too afraid to venture into a dark place." The foreign sorcerer rubbed his hands together. "But it is neither humans nor trolls that I plan to send."  
  
Oracus thought it better not to ask. He had already achieved his main goal- the destruction of his rival's guild. Whether he actually captured or killed the Dark Lady herself was merely icing on the cake. The sooner Lord Morkawn got what he was after, the sooner he could dissolve his temporary alliance with the outland heretic. "Suit yourself, Lord Morkawn. I'll have one of my men show you the secret entrance to the tunnels. In any case, it won't be long now."  
  



	17. Poiniard's Tale Part Twelve

Mheren was the first to descend into the tunnels. "There's no time for arguing," she said, after Poiniard had given her an uncharacteristically chivalrous look. "There's no light at the bottom, and neither of you can see in the dark. I'm an elf, and I can." The matter decided, she sat down on the edge of the hole, dangling her feet in the air. She made a quick check of the straps on her backpack and tightened her swordbelt, then set her feet on the topmost rung and climbed down into the gloom.  
  
Poiniard and Shespi huddled around the opening and watched the warrior- maiden descend. "Hurry up," Shespi said with a nervous glance over her shoulder. "If someone sees us before we get the hatch closed again, they'll know for sure where we went, and pursue us."  
  
"Right," Poiniard agreed. "I'll go next." He glanced down to make sure Mheren had descended far enough for him to start down the ladder. Only the top few rungs were visible- the rest were hidden in the shadowy depths. There was no sign of Mheren. "Are you all right?" Poiniard called out, as loudly as he dared.  
  
"Yes," came the faint, almost muffled reply from below. "It goes down quite a way."  
  
"Enough talking," Shespi said.  
  
Poiniard nodded and set his boots on the first rung. It was metal, and felt both slick and rusty. He, too, quickly checked that his gear was secure for the climb, then lowered himself into the tunnel. He labored under the weight of his heavy pack, which almost threatened to unbalance him. For the first time, Poiniard wondered whether all that gold was really worth it. The added bulk made for slow going down an already treacherous climb.  
  
He had not gone very far when he began to feel an oppressive gloom close in about him. He fought the bile rising in his throat, for the air coming up the shaft from the tnnels below was thick and foul smelling. "How can Mheren stand this," he thought. The air just seemed old and musty, but the darkness seemed almost unnatural. Glancing down, he could not see much beyond his own feet, and Mheren was nowhere to be seen in the gloom below. Poiniard tried desperately to ignore the sense of revulsion that grew in his stomach every time he descended another rung.  
  
Looking up, the light coming in through the square opening seemed pale and filtered, as if he were looking through a glass of ale. He saw Shespi's silhouette as she swung her shapely legs down onto the ladder.  
  
"I'm coming down," Shespi called out from above, her voice barely a whisper.  
  
The rusty metal handholds set in the slick masonry didn't seem nearly as secure as he would have liked. Poiniard took the deepest breath he could manage in the foul air, and tried to refocus all his attention on his descent. "Slow and steady," he told himself. "Firm foothold, tight grip, keep your pack centered."  
  
"I'm closing the door," Shespi said.  
  
Poiniard heard a soft clang and a muted click as the grate slid into place.  
  
"Oh dear," Shespi said.  
  
"What?"  
  
"It's locked now," Shespi answered. He could hear her gently trying the grate she had just closed. "I didn't know it would do that."  
  
"Well, no matter," Poiniard said, wondering why the grate would be locked from this side. Carefully, he moved down another rung. "I've got Wyrding, don't forget. Getting out won't be any trouble for us at all. But we won't be coming back out this way, anyway."  
  
"You're right, I just don't like having a locked door behind me." Resigned that there was now only one way to go, Lady Shespi set about descending after the others.  
  
A few moments later, Poiniard had lowered himself even further, and began to wonder how far down the shaft went. Surprisingly little light was making it down from above. Shespi was nothing but a slim, dark outline against the wall above him. Poiniard paused a moment to look down. He couldn't even see Mheren, let alone the bottom. "Mheren?"  
  
"I'm here," she answered from somewhere below him. She sounded very far away. "I think I can see the bottom, and I can hear water dripping."  
  
"I think I hear it too," he said, a slow, steady drip-drip-drip. Suddenly, he heard a shriek of metal, and a snapping sound, and a splash. "Mheren? Are you all right?"  
  
No answer came, just the sound of frantic splashing. Panic gripped him, and he strained his eyes down into the darkness. Poiniard nearly lost his grip, hastening down to his friend.  
  
"I'm all right," Mheren's voice said at last, coughing and spluttering somewhere below. "The last rung broke off. But it seems I've found the bottom."  
  
"Hold on," Poiniard said. "I'm coming."  
  
"Take it slow," she warned. "I don't want you falling on top of me. You should be able to feel where the last rung was. Don't worry, it's not a long drop from there. Just lower yourself and hang by your arms and let go." The others heard some small splashing as Mheren got to her feet. "Ugh," she said. "I'm standing up now, and there's muck down here up to my thighs. And I'm covered in it!"  
  
"I guess your gown is ruined, then," Shespi called down jokingly.  
  
"What's left of it," Mheren replied. "I hate to think what I must look like now."  
  
"I hate to think what it is you're covered in."  
  
The elf didn't really concern herself with her appearance. She drew Monarchal from her sheath and surveryed the small chamber at the bottom of the shaft with her elvensight. "We're in luck- there's a tunnel here leading northwest."  
  
"Of course there's a tunnel," Shespi said. "Did you think I was leading you into a trap?"  
  
"No, Lady Shespi, I didn't mean to imply that." Mheren searched around a bit more, waiting for the others to finish their descent. "The tunnel's not very high, we'll have to walk hunched over. And I don't think we're going to like this- it looks to be half-filled with this same, horrible slime."  
  
"But at least it's too small for trolls to fit?" Poiniard asked hopefully.  
  
"Looks that way," Mheren answered.  
  
"I'm at the last rung now," Poiniard said. Doing as Mheren had told him, he went the last few rungs using only his hands, until finally he hung by the last good rung. He let go. His feet hit the murky water almost immediately, so it was only a drop of a few feet. "You're right," he said, pinching his nose in the darkness. "This stuff smells awful." He tested the slime, taking a few cautious steps. It seemed too thick and viscous to be water. "Hold on, I'll get a torch lit."  
  
"Make it quick," the elf said. "So you can get out your Sword." 


	18. Poiniard's Tale Part Thirteen

Poiniard momentarily forgot about Mheren's night vision while he fumbled in his pack for a torch and tinderbox. "I'll have it lit in a second," he said, telling himself he wasn't hearing things splashing about further up the tunnels.

Shespi tried not to gag as she searched around in the darkness. "This muck is just horrible," she said, putting a hand over her nose.

"Try not to think about it," Mheren said coolly. She stood to one side, and with her elvensight was peering down the tunnel. "It looks like we're going to be wading in it for a while. The tunnel is filled with it as far as I can see."

"What CAN you see?" Shespi asked, trying to peer into the gloom.

"The tunnel goes straight for some forty feet or more, then it looks like it makes a sharp turn to the right."

Shespi shuddered again at the slime coating her feet and legs. "This stuff feels like its sticking to me!"

"You're just imagining things, Shespi. Try not to think about it," Mheren said, though she had been having similar, disgusting thoughts herself.

Shespi did the only thing she could in the darkness- she drew her knife and clenched it as hard as she could. "Curse it all, Poiniard, haven't you got that torch lit, yet?"

"Just about," he said. There was a spark of light, in which the two humans momentarily got a glimpse of their companions and their surroundings. Poiniard struck steel to flint again, in an effort to get his torch lit. Everything was damp and saturated with the repulsive water, but with a few more tries he finally got a fire going. His torch spluttered in fits, and the light was pale and seemed weaker than he'd hoped. Poiniard pulled a second torch from his pack, passed the flame to it, then handed it to Shespi.

"Now we're ready," he said, drawing his sword and turning to face the tunnel. To the very limits of their torchlight, they could see the sewer was half-full of the stagnant, murky water.

"We're going to have to stoop, but it looks like we can make it through," Mheren said.

"Let's get going, then," Shespi said, grimacing.

The elf woman nodded and led the way into the sewers, holding Monarchal before her. Shespi followed immediately behind, bearing her torch, and Poiniard brought up the rear. They soon reached the point where the tunnel turned sharply to the right, and Mheren peered around the corner.

"More of the same. About forty feet, then a turn to the left."

"It looks like it might be a bit of an uphill slope," Shespi said hopefully.

"You might be right," Mheren agreed. "I can't really tell until we try it."

The three intrepid adventurers rounded the next corner and continued their flight through Culhaven's sewers. They found the stagnant water finally began to recede somewhat. The tunnel became taller as well, so they could finally walk upright without ducking their heads. They noticed the tunnel becoming warmer and drier.

"The muck is not so deep here," Shespi said. "It barely comes up to my knees, now." The red-haired thief tried vainly to wring some of the water from the skirts of her gown, but quickly gave it up. She grimaced at the black stains left on her thighs by the muck. She tried scrubbing some of it off, but to no avail- all she managed to do was to further coat her hands with the dark, muddy grime. "We need to find someplace dry, so we can rest a moment."

Mheren glanced over at Shespi, out of the corner of her eye. "Not used to getting dirty, My Lady?"

Shespi glared at the elf-maiden. Mheren looked even more bedraggled than she did, covered in stinking mud nearly from head to toe. The swordswoman's hair was plastered to her head from when she'd fallen completely into the mud when the ladder had broken, and Mheren's dress- designed for fashionable masqued balls rather than climbing about in sewers- looked as if it was on the verge of falling apart. But the elf didn't seem bothered. She was about to reply with a scathing insult when they heard a noise in the tunnel behind them.

"Did you hear that?" Shespi asked. "It sounded like a door slamming."

Mheren scowled. "I heard it too. Come on, we've got to keep moving."

Poiniard suddenly felt a tingle shoot up his sword arm. "What the-" he said, then stopped in amazement. "Look there, he said. "Where the slime does not cover the walls of the tunnel, it looks like runes carved into the stone. Rows of them. What do you make of this?"

"Old Sturothi, by the looks of it," Mheren said in wonder. "These tunnels must be older than anyone imagined if the sorcerer-kings have left their marks in them."

The mention of that ancient and legendary race sent chills down Poiniard's spine. "What do you think they say?"

"It's a warning!" Shespi blurted out. "Don't read them, or touch them!"

The others looked at her, puzzled. "Shespi, can you read what is written there?" Mheren asked.

Shespi shook her head. "No, but if those truly are draconic glyphs, they could be dangerous. The Guild has always said these tunnels are off limits. The Dark Lady feared they were laden with traps. The sorcerer-kings often used magic runes to guard their burial chambers. Any one of those glyphs could be a trap."

Poiniard narrowed his eyes. Despite Shespi's fervent warning, he was intrigued by the ancient letters, and dared a closer inspection. Wyrding hummed silently in his hand- or was he just imagining things? "What Shespi said makes sense, but some of these runes look familiar to me, somehow. This one seems to indicate a barrier," he said, with a distant look in his eyes.

Suddenly, they heard the grating of metal on stone. It seemed to be coming from above the ceiling.

"A trap!" Shespi called out, looking around frantically. Looking up, they could see that an entire section of the ceiling above them had slowly begun to descend, threatening to crush them all, or drown them in the muck. "Get moving! Go!"

They all turned to hurry down the tunnel, carefully watching the descending ceiling, when Mheren stopped abruptly and looked down at the dark waters clinging to her calves. "I just stepped on something," she said, alarmed. "And it moved!"

Then, the water erupted around them. A great slimy bulk heaved itself from the water, knocking Mheren aside as it rose. It was a carrion beast, a tombworm, some monster of the forgotten era of the sorcerer-kings. How long it had lain there, not even a wizard could guess. It was mottled purple and green and grey, a great leech with legs. Its back was covered with a segmented carapace, dripping slime and crusted with knob-like barnacles. It rose up like a thick serpent, and it gave off a powerful stench that washed over the three adventurers like a wave. Its large, puckered mouth was ringed with sharp teeth, and its twin mandibles clacked as they open and shut, like some hungry insect or sea beast. Around its fanged maw were eight writhing tentacles, each as long as a man's arm, and tipped with a fleshy pad that glistened with poison. It lashed out at Shespi and coiled one of its tentacles around her bare neck.

"It stings!" Shespi cried, dropping her torch into the water as the rubbery appendage began to tighten its grip.

Mheren managed to struggle to her feet. Leaning against the wall for support, she swung her sword, trying to keep the creature at bay, even as it tightened its grip on Shespi. The redhead suddenly went completely rigid, whether through fear or some venom in the creature's limbs. Slowly, the crawling thing began to slither off down the tunnel, back the way they had come, drawing the paralyzed Shespi closer to its maw as it went.

"We've got to save her!" Poiniard shouted.

Mheren nodded, but could not help glancing upward. "If we go back to save her, we'll be stuck on the other side when this trap closes. Our only hope of escaping is to go on."

Poiniard hesitated. "We can't leave her to be eaten by that thing."

"If we stay here and argue about it, we'll be crushed." The ceiling continued to grind its way lower, while the crawling thing splashed further away from them, dragging the helpless Shespi with it.


End file.
